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ECLECTIC  EDUCATIONAL  SERIES. 


McGUFFBY’S 

NEW 

SIXTH  ECLECTIC  READER 


EXERCISES  IN 


EHETORIOAL  READING, 

WITH 


INTEODUCTOEY  EULES  AND  EXAMPLES. 


By  WM.  H.  McGUFFEY,  LL.D. 


STjEnEOTTPX!  EDITION. 


VAN  ANTWERP,  BRAGG  & CO., 

137  Walnut  Street, 

CINCINNATI. 


28  Bond  Street, 
NEW  YORK. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by  W.  B,  SMITH,  in  the 
Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern  District 
of  Ohio 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 
SARGENT,  WILSON  & HINKLE, 

In’ the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern 
District  of  Ohio, 


ECLECTIC  press: 

VAN  ANTWERP,  BRAGG  & CO., 
CINCINNATI. 


/^/7/r? 

PREFACE. 


This  book  is  presented  to  the  public  as  the  sixth  in  th^  remod- 
eled series  of  Eclectic  Readers. 

As  it  is  designed  for  advanced  pupils,  most  of  the  means  adopted 
in  the  other  volumes  for  aiding  the  learner,  such  as  Questions, 
Spelling,  &c.,  are  here  dispensed  with,  and  the  student  is  left  to 
his  own  judgment. 

The  Principles  of  Elocution,  in  the  introductory  article,  are 
explained  and  illustrated  in  a more  extended,  systematic,  and 
complete  form,  than  in  the  preceding  volumes. 

The  Reading  Exercises,  as  far  as  to  page  204,  are  especially 
adapted  to  illustrate  the  principles  explained  in  the  introductory 
treatise.  For  example,  the  first  five  lessons  are  selected  for  their 
especial  adaptation  to  practice  in  Articulation^  although  it  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  every  word  in  every  lesson  is  an  exercise  in 
Articulation. 

The  Inflections  are  illustrated,  and  a guide  to  their  proper  use 
furnished,  by  an  appropriate  notation  in  most  of  the  Reading  Ex- 
ercises as  far  as  the  73d,  on  page  204.  Among  them,  some  are, 
also,  adapted  to  exemplify  emphasis^  some.,  the  reading  of  poetry., 
and  others  are  appropriate  to  practice  in  cultivating  the  voice^  in 
its  high.,  low.,  or  medium  tones. 

From  the  74th  Exercise  onward,  rhetorical  notation  is  dis- 
pensed with,  the  learner  being  left  to  his  own  judgment,  except 
such  aid  as  the  teacher  may  think  proper  occasionally  to  give,  it 
.being  supposed  that,  in  the  several  volumes  of  this  series,  all,  that 
•3 could  be  profitably  contained  in  books,  has  been  furnished. 


(7) 


8 


PREFACE. 


In  the  preparation  of  this  work,  free  use  has  been  made  of  the 
writings  of  standard  authors  upon  Elocution,  such  as  Walker, 
McCulloch,  Sheridan  Knowles,  Ewing,  Pinnock,  Scott,  Bell,  Gra- 
ham, Mylins,  Wood,  Rush,  and  many  others. 

In  the  selection  of  articles  for  Reading  Exercises,  great  care 
has  been  taken  to  present  variety  of  style  and  subject,  to  attract 
by  interest  of  matter,  to  elevate  by  purity  and  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment, and  especially  to  furnish  the  mind  with  valuable  informa- 
tion, and  to  influence  the  heart  by  sound  moral  and  religious  in* 
struction. 

Considerable  liberty  has  been  taken  with  the  articles  selected, 
in  order  to  adapt  them  to  the  especial  purpose  for  which  they  are 
here  designed.  Much  change  and  remodeling  have  been  neces- 
sary. The  lessons  are  therefore  credited  as  taken  the 

author  named. 


CONTENTS 


PRINCIPLES  OP  ELOCUTION. 


Articulation 15 

Inflections  . . . . 23 

Accent  and  Emphasis 39 

Reading  Verse .45 

The  Voice 51 

Gesture .* ....  67 


LESSONS  IN  PROSE 


EXERCISE. 

PAGE. 

1.  The  Grotto  of  Antiparos  .... 

. Goldsmith,  . 61 

3.  Description  of  a Storm  .... 

. U Israeli,  . . 65 

6.  Industry  necessary  for  the  Orator 

. II.  TFare,  Jr.  . 70 

8.  Schemes  of  Life  often  Illusory 

. Dr.  Johnson.  . 73 

10.  Death  of  Little  Nell 

. Dickens.  . . 77 

11.  Romantic  Story 

80 

12.  The  Lone  Indian 

.....  81 

14.  The  Music  of  Nature  . . . . • 

Willis.  . ..  84 

16.  The  Thunder-Storm 

. G.  D.  Prentice,  87 

17.  The  Artist  Surprised  . . . . « 

90 

18.  The  Chinese  Prisoner  .... 

95 

19.  A Highland  Feud  . • 

96 

21.  Prospects  of  the  Cherokees  . . . 

100 

22.  A Political  Pause 

. Fox.  . . . 103 

24.  Select  Paragraphs  

105 

26.  Character  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte 

. Phillips.  . 108 

29.  Speech  in  reproof  of  Mr.  Pitt  . 

. Walpole.  . 113 

30.  Reply  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole  . 

. Pitt.  ...  114 

31.  Character  of  Mr.  Pitt  .... 

. Grattan  . . 116 

33.  Speech  before  the  Virginia  Convention 

. PaVfifh,  Henry.  118 

(9? 


•10  CONTENTS. 

EXERCISE.  PAGE. 

42.  Paul’s  Defense  before  King  Agrippa  . . The  Bible.  . 134 

46.  The  Broken  Heart Irving.  . . 140 

48.  La  Fayette  and  Robert  Raikes Grimke.  . . 145 

49.  On  Happiness  of  Temper . Goldsmith.  . 148 

50.  The  Fortune-Teller Mackenzie.  . 150 

53.  Ironical  Eulogy  on  Debt 156 

55.  Description  of  a Siege Walter  Scott.  161 

57.  Life,  a Mighty  River Heher.  . 166 

59.  A view  of  the  Coliseum Dewey.  . . 169 

61.  Combat  at  a Tournament Walter  Scott.  172 

64.  South  Carolina Hayne.  . . 178 

65.  Massachusetts  and  South  Carolina  . . . Webster,  . . 180 

67.  The  Knave  Unmasked Shakspeare.  . 185 

68.  A Passage  in  Human  Life 195 

71.  Elijah  the  Tishbite The  Bible.  . 200 

72.  Elijah  at  Mount  Horeb Krummacher.  202 

75.  The  Mysterious  Stranger Taylor.  . . 206 

79.  Choice  of  Hercules The  Tatter.  . 215 

81.  Lament  for  the  Dead Ossian.  . . 218 

83.  Westminster  Abbey Addison.  . . 220 

85.  The  Voyage Irving.  . . 226 

88.  Scene  from  the  Poor  Gentleman  ....  Colman.  . . 233 

90.  Folly  of  Intoxication Shakspeare.  . 240 

92.  The  Evils  of  War 242 

94.  Origin  of  Property Blackstone.  . 246 

"95.  British  Refugees Patrick  Henry,  251 

97.  The  Discontented  Pendulum Jane  Taylor.  256 

99.  Grateful  Old  Age Gesner.  . . 261 

101.  Memory  of  our  Fathers Beecher.  . . 265 

103.  The  Fourteenth  Congress R.  II.  Wilde.  268 

106.  The  Shipwreck 274 

108.  The  Eagle’s  Nest Wilson.  . ' . 277 

111.  North  American  Indians Sprague.  . . 235 

113.  The  Twins Wilson.  . . 288 

116.  An  Evening  Adventure 296  . 

117.  New-Year’s  Night  of  an  Unhappy  Man  . . Richter.  . . 298 


CONTENTS.  11 

EXERCISE.  PAGE. 

120.  Discontent:  An  Allegory Addison.  . . 304 

122.  Family  of  Marco  Bozzaris Stevens.  . . 311 

125.  On  the  Removal  of  the  British  Troops  . . Chatham.  . . 319 

127.  The  Baptism Wilson.  . . 325 

129.  Bunyan’s  “Pilgrim’s  Progress’  ....  Macaulay.  . 331 

131.  The  Best  Kind  of  Revenge 334 

134.  Tact  and  Talent ^ 338 

135.  The  Voyage  of  Life:  An  Allegory  ....  Dr.  Johnson.  340 

136.  Colloquial  Powers  of  Franklin  .....  Wm.  Wirt.  . 342 

138.  Influence  of  Natural  Scenery 346 

141.  The  Crusader  and  the  Saracen Walter  Scott.  351 

144.  Prince  Henry  and  Falstatf Shakspeare.  . 360 

147.  Impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings  ....  Macaulay.  . 370 

150.  The  Will 376 

151.  The  Natural  and  Moral  Worlds Grimke.  . . 379 

154.  The  Teacher  and  the  Sick  Scholar  ....  Dickens.  . . 384 

156.  The  Little  Brook  and  the  Star 389 

159.  On  the  American  War Chatham.  . . 401 

160.  Supposed  Speech  of  John  Adams  ....  Webster.  . . 403 

162.  The  Grave Irving.  . . 408 

164.  Anecdote  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle 412 

166.  Speech  on  Trial  of  a Murderer Webster.  . . 416 

168.  Observance  of  the  Sabbath  Dr.  Spring.  . 421 

170.  Character  of  Columbus Irving.  . . 425 

171.  Surrender  of  Grenada , . Bulwer.  . . 428 

173.  The  Moon  and  Stars:  A Fable Montgomery.  . 433 

177.  Importance  of  the  Union  .......  Webster.  . . 442 

178.  Character  of  Washington Sparks.  . . 444 

180.  Mrs.  Caudle’s  Lecture  Jerrold.  . . 449 

182.  The  Dawn Everett,  . . 453 

184.  The  Dying  Soldier  456 

/ 


12 


CONTEJv;  f S. 

LESSONS  IN  POETRY. 

EXEKCISE.  PAGE, 

2.  The  Thunder-Storm Thomson.  . . 64 

4.  Hymn  to  the  Night-Wind Moir.  ...  66 

5.  The  Cataract  of  Lodore Southey.  . . 68 

7.  The  Old  House-Clock ' . 72 

9.  The  Needle Woodworth.  . 76 

13.  To  the  Dead Brainard.  . . 83 

15.  The  Village  Blacksmith Longfellow.  . 86 

20.  The  Hour  of  Prayer Mrs.  Hemans.  100 

23.  Song  of  the  Stars Bryant.  . . 104 

25.  Select  Paragraphs 107 

27.  Hamlet’s  Soliloquy Shakspeare.  . 110 

28.  Ode  to  an  Infant  Son Thomas  Hood.  Ill 

32.  The  Gouty  Merchant  and  the  Stranger  . . Byrom.  . . 117 

34.  Vanity  of  Life Herder.  . . 121 

35.  The  Mariner’s  Dream Dimond.  . . 123 

36.  The  Soldier’s  Rest Walter  Scott.  124 

37.  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Chas.  Wolfe.  . 126 

38.  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn Southey.  . . 127 

39.  Jephthah’s  Daughter N.  P.  Willis.  129 

40.  Treasures  of  the  Deep Hemans.  . . 131 

41.  Battle  in  Heaven Milton.  . . 132 

43.  Henry  V.  to  his  Troops  ........  Shakspeare.  . 136 

44.  Hector’s  Attack  on  the  Grecian  Vfalls  . . . Popds  Homer.  137 

45.  Rienzi’s  Address  to  the  Romans Miss  Mitford.  139 

47.  The  Prisoner  for  Debt Whittier  . . 143 

51.  Satan,  Sin,  and  Death  ........  Milton.  . . 153 

52.  God  is  Every-where 155 

54.  Faithless  Nelly  Gray Hood.  . . . 159 

56.  Description  of  a Storm  at  Sea Carrington.  . 165 

58.  The  Family  Meeting Sprague.  . . 167 

60.  On  Modulation Lloyd.  . . . 171 

62.  The  Banner  of  Pulaski Longfellow.  . 175 

63.  The  Downfall  of  Poland Campbell. . . 177 

66.  The  Last  Days  of  Herculaneum Atherstone.  . 181 


CONTENTS. 


13 


EXERCISE.  • PAGE, 

69.  Thanatopsis Bryant.  . . 197 

70.  The  Departed Park  Benjamin.  199 

73.  Earth  and  Heaven 204 

74.  The  Sleepers Mrs.  Hemans.  205 

77.  A Psalm  of  Life Longfellow.  . 212 

78.  The  Dream  of  Clarence Shakspeare.  . 213 

80.  Ambition N.  P.  Willis.  217 

82.  The  Church-Yard Karamisin.  . 219 

84.  Elegy  in  a Country  Church-Yard  ....  Gray.  . . . 222 

87.  Song  of  Emigration Hemans.  . . 232 

89.  The  Well  of  St.  Keyne Southey.  . . 238 

91.  Elegy  on  Madam  Blaize Goldsmith.  . 242 

93.  The  Philosopher’s  Scales Jane  Taylor.  245 

96.  Antony  over  Caesar’s  Dead  Body  ....  Shakspeare.  . 253 

98.  The  Nose  and  the  Eyes Cowper.  . . 260 

100.  The  Three  Warnings Thrale.  . . 263 

102.  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  ....  Hemans.  . . 267 

104.  The  American  Flag Drake.  . . 271 

105.  The  Eagle Percival.  . . 272 

107.  To  My  Mother 276 

110.  The  Dead  Eagle 283 

112.  Red  Jacket,  the  Indian  Chief Halleck.  . . 286 

115.  My  Mother’s  Picture  Cowper.  . . 295 

118.  The  Closing  Year G.  D.  Prentice.  300 

119.  The  Passions Collins.  . . 302 

121.  Resolution  of  Rubh 309 

123.  Marco  Bozzaris Halleck.  . . 315 

124.  Song  of  the  Greek  Bard Byron.  . . 317 

126.  Battle  of  Beal’  An  Duine Walter  Scott.  322 

128.  The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers Longfellow.  . 330 

130.  The  Star  of  Bethlehem H.  K.  White.  333 

132.  The  Glove  and  the  Lion Leigh  Hunt.  . 335 

133.  The  Battle  of  Blenheim Southey.  . . 336 

137.  A Conversational  Pleasantry Franklin.  . . 344 

139.  The  Voice  of  Spring Hemans.  . . 348 

140.  Summer  Evening Bryant.  . . 350 


14  CONTENTS. 

EXERCISE.  PACE. 

142.  The  Raven  Poe.  . . . 354 

143.  Darkness Byron.  . . 358 

145.  The  Quarrel  of  Brutus  and  Cassius  . . . Shakspeare.  . 364 

146.  The  Quack Tobin.  . . . 367 

148.  Murder  of  Prince  Arthur Shakspeare.  . 372 

149.  The  Remorse  of  King  John Shakspeare.  373 

152.  The  Pleasant  Rain Miller. , . . 381 

153.  The  Snow-Flake Gould.  . , . 382 

155.  The  Widow  and  her  Son Edwards.  . . 388 

158.  Song  of  the  Shirt Hood.  . . . 398 

161.  Parting  of  Marmion  and  Douglas  ....  Scott.  . . . 406 

163.  The  Pearl-Diver Hemans.  . . 410 

165.  Lochinvar Scott.  . . . 414 

167.  Fall  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  . Shakspeare.  . 418 

169.  God’s  Goodness  to  Such  as  Fear  Him  . . . The  Bible.  . 424 

172.  The  Last  Sigh  of  the  Moor Jewsbury. . . 431 

175.  Thunder-Storm  on  the  Alps Byron.  . . 439 

176.  The  ]\Ianiac Lewis.  . . . 441 

179.  The  Victor’s  Crown Hale.  . . . 448 

181.  The  Jolly  Old  Pedagogue  . Arnold.  , . 451 

183.  Calling  the  Roll Shepherd.  . . 455 

185.  The  Picket 457 

185.  The  Brave  at  Home  ....  c . 458 

186.  The  Lost  Pleiad * (Jwrry- . e . 459 


PEINCIPLES  OF  ELOCUTION. 


The  subject  of  Elocution^  so  far  as  it  Is  deemed  appli- 
cable  to  a work  of  this  kind,  will  be  considered  under  the 
following  tueads,  viz. 


1.  Akticulation  ; 

2.  Inflection; 

3.  Accent  AND  Emphasis; 


4.  Eeading  Verse; 

5.  The  Voice; 

6.  Gesture. 


I.  ARTICULATION. 

FAULTS  TO  BE  REMEDIED. 

The  most  common  faults  of  articulation  are  the  follow- 
ing, viz. : 

1.  Dropping  an  unaccented  vowel. 


EXAMPLES. 


CORRECT. 

INCORRECT. 

CORRECT. 

INCORRECT. 

Gran^a-ry 

gran’ry. 

har^mo-ny 

harm’ny. 

im-mor^tal 

im-mor-t’l. 

a-banMon 

a-ban-d’n. 

mock^er-y 

mock’ry. 

reg^u-lar 

reg’lar. 

lam-en-ta^tion 

lam’  n-ta-tion. 

par-tic^'u-lar 

par-tic’ lar. 

in-clem^enL 

in-clem’nt. 

sin^gu-lar 

sin-g’lar. 

des^ti-ny 

des-t’ny. 

cal-cu-la^tion 

cal-cl’a-sh’  n. 

u-ni-ver^si-ty 

u-ni-vers’ty. 

cir-cu-la^tion 

cir-cl’a-sh’  n. 

un-cer^tain 

un-cer-t’n. 

na^tion 

na-sh’n. 

ooFo-ny 

col’ny. 

oc-ca^sion 

oc-ca-sh’n. 

cm^er-y 

em’ry. 

feFo-ny 

fel’ny. 

em^i-nent 

em’nent. 

ef^fi-gy 

ef’gy. 

ag^o-ny 

ag’ny. 

fem^o-ral 

fern’  ral. 

eb^on-y 

eb’ny. 

man^i-fold 

man’ fold. 

rev^er-ent 

rev’ rent 

cuFti-vate 

cult’vate. 

15 


16 


ARTICULATION. 


2,  Sounding  incorrectly  an  unaccented  vowel. 


EXAMPLES. 


CORRECT. 

INCORRECT. 

CORRECT. 

INCORRECT. 

Lani-en-ta^tion 

lani-un-ta-tion. 

ter^ri-ble 

ter-rub-ble. 

e-ter^nal 

e-ter-nul. 

sen^si-ble 

sen-sub-ble 

ob^sti-nate 

ob-stun-it. 

fel-o^ny 

fel-er-ny. 

descent 

de-sunt. 

meFo-dy 

mel-er-dy 

sys^tem 

sys-t?^m,  or 

feFlow-ship 

fel-le?*-shq  . 

sys-tim 

caFcu-late 

cal-ker-late. 

e-venC 

uv-ent. 

cir^cu-lar 

cir-ky-ler. 

ef^fort 

uf-fort 

reg^u-lar 

reg-gy-lur. 

EXERCISES. 

The  vowels  most  likely  to  be  dropped  or  incorrectly 
sounded  are  italicized. 

He  attended  drvine  serv2ce  regularly. 

This  is  my  particular  request. 

He  graduated  at  one  of  th^  Eastern  Un^Vers^ties. 

She  ^s  unwersally  esteemed. 

George  is  sensible  of  his  fault. 

This  calculation  is  incorrect. 

His  fears  wore  justified  by  tho  ovent. 

What  a torrible  calamity. 

I will  support  the  Constitution  of  tho  Unitod  States. 

The  whole  nation  lamented  him. 

His  eye  through  vast  immensity  can  pierce. 

Observe  these  nice  dependencies. 

He  is  a formidable  adversary. 

Hway ! presumptuous  man. 

I will,  go  and  be  reconciled  to  my  brother. 

He  is  generous  to  his  friends. 

A tempest  desolated  the  land. 

His  reputation  is  ruined. 

He  preferred  death  to  servitude. 

God  is  the  author  of  all  things  visible  and  invisible. 

He  is  a man  of  eminent  merit. 

AJxpect  not  my  commendation. 

Caius’  countenance  fell. 

He  has  contracted  a bad  habit. 

Tell  me  the  difference  between  articulation  and  utterance 
He  was  delighted  with  the  exhibition. 


ARTICULATION. 


j? 


3.  Suppressing  the  final  consonants. 

EXAMPLES. 

John  an’  James  are  friens  o’  my  father. 

Bonn’  han’  an’  foot. 

Gi’  me  some  bread. 

Tuf’s  o’  grass. 

The  want  o’  men  is  occasioned  by  the  want  o’  money 
We  seldom  fine’  men  o’  principle  to  ac’  thus. 

Beas’  an’  creepin’  things  were  foun’  there. 

Thrus’  thy  sickle  into  the  harves’ 

Thou  has’  thousan’  frien’s  on  thy  side. 

Evenin’  an’  mornin’,  an’  at  noon  o'  night. 

EXERCISES. 

He  learne(^  to  write. 

Did  you  fin<i  any  birds’  nests  f 

The  mas?!5  of  the  ship  were  cas?^  down. 

He  entered  the  lisi?5  at  the  head  of  his  troo/?5. 

Be  ye  wise  as  serpen^f^  an(i  harmless  as  doves. 

He  is  the  merriest  fellow  in  existence. 

1 regard  not  the  worl(i’s  opinion. 

Such  were  his  commanci^s. 

He  has  three  assistants. 

Thou  though  test  that  I was  such  a one  as  thyself. 

The  dept/is  of  the  sea. 

She  trusts  too  much  to  servants. 

He  halts  between  two  opinions. 

His  attempts  were  fruitless. 

That  race  of  animals  is  extinct. 

He  chancec^  to  see  a bee  hoveriny  over  a flower. 

4.  Omitting  or  mispronouncing  whole  syllables. 

lit-rer-ry. 

ne-ces-ry  or  nes-iv 
co-tem-po-ry. 
ex-tem-po-ry. 
het-ro-ge-nous. 
in-quis-i-to-ral. 
mis-rer-ble. 
tol-rer-ble. 
con-fed-rer-cy. 
ac-comp-ner-ment. 


EXAMPLES. 

Lit'er-a-ry  is  improperli/  pronounced 
nec^es-sa-ry  “ “ 

co-tem^po-ra-ry  “ ‘‘ 

ex-tem^po-ra-ry  “ 
het-er-o-ge^ne-ous  “ “ 

in-quis-i-to'ri-al  “ “ 

mis'er-a-ble  ‘ “ 

toPer-a-ble  ‘‘  “ 

con-fed^er-a-cy  “ “ 

ac-com^pa-ni-ment  ‘‘  ‘‘ 


ARTICULATION. 


J8 


EXERCISES. 

He  devoted  his  attention  chiefly  to  literary  pursuits. 

He  is  a miserable  creature. 

He  is  a venerable  man. 

His  faults  vrere  owing  to  the  degeneracy  of  the  times. 

The  manuscript  was  undecipherable. 

The  confederacy  continued  for  many  years. 

His  spirit  was  unconquerable, 

It  was  a grand  accompa?^^ment. 

Luther  and  Melancthon  were  cotem^oraries. 

Great  industry  was  necessary  for  the  performance  of  the  task 

Blending  the  end  of  one  word  with  the  beginning 
of  the  next. 

EXAMPLES. 

I court  thy  gif  eno  more. 

Bag  eof  gold. 

Han  d'me  the  slate. 

The  grove  ewere  God  ^fir  etemples. 

This  worl  e?is  all  a fleeting  show, 

For  man’  ^illusion  given. 

My  hear  twsLS  a mirror,  that  show’  ci?every  treasure. 

It  reflecte  <feach  beautiful  blosso  mof  pleasure. 


EXERCISES. 

The  magistrates  ought  to  arrest  the  rogues  speedily. 

Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs. 

The  whirlwinds  sweep  the  plain. 

He  wen^  over  the  mountain. 

\j\n\ied  to  thy  side,  through  every  clianse  I go. 

But  hacZ  he  seen  an  actor  in  our  days  enacting  Shakspeare. 
Whaif  awful  sounds  assail  my  ears  ? 

We  caugA^  a glimpse  of  her. 

Crowdeci?  housss  and  new  pieces. 

Old  age  has  on  their  templss  ehed  her  silver  frost. 

Our  eagle  shall  rise  mid  the  whirlwinc^s  of  war. 

And  dart  through  the  dun  clou(i  of  battle  his  eye. 

Then  honor  shall  weave  of  the  laurel  a crown, 

That  beauty  shall  bine?  on  the  brow  of  the  brave. 

Questions. — Under  what  heads  is  the  subject  of  Elocution  consid- 
ered? What  is  the  first  source  of  defective  articulation  that  is 
named?  Give  examples.  What  the  second  ? Give  examples.  Name 
the  third,  and  give  examples.  What  the  fourth?  Give  examples. 
Describe  the  fifth  faulty  and  illustrate  by  examples, 


ARTICULATION. 


19 


DIRECTIONS 

FOR  ACQUIRING  A GOOD  ARTICULATION. 

Words  being  made  up  of  one  or  more  elementary 
bounds^  the  first  object  of  the  student  should  be^  to 
acquire  the  power  of  uttering  those  elements  with  dis~ 
tinctness  and  force;  for  if  the  elementary  sounds  are  but 
imperfectly  formed^  the  entire  word  must  be  indistinct. 

Practice  upon  these  sounds  should  be  persevered  in,  until 
the  learner  has  acquired  a perfect  control  of  his  organs  of 
speech.  This  exercise  is  one  of  great  importance,  as,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  habit  of  correct  articulation  thus  formed,  it  im- 
parts a strength  to  the  voice  which  can  not  be  acquired  in 
any  other  way. 

As  the  vowels  are  the  most  prominent  elements  of  all  words, 
as  well  as  the  most  easily  uttered,  it  is  proper  that  they  should 
constitute  the  first  lesson. 

Each  of  these  can  be  uttered  with  great  force,  so  as  to  give 
a distinct  expression  of  its  sound,  although  the  voice  is  sud- 
denly suspended,  the  moment  the  sound  is  produced.  This  is 
done  by  expelling  each  sound  from  the  throat  in  the  same 
manner  that  the  syllable  “ah!”  is  uttered  in  endeavoring 
to  deter  a child  from  something  it  is  about  to  do ; thus, 
a’ — a’ — a’ — . 

Let  the  pupil  be  required  to  explode  from  the  throat,  in  this 
manner,  every  one  of  the  elements,  in  the  following  table,  with 
all  possible  suddenness  and  percussive  force,  until  he  is  able  to 
do  it  wdth  ease  and  accuracy.  This  must  not  be  considered  as 
accomplished,  until  he  can  give  each  sound  with  entire  clear- 
ness, and  with  all  the  suddenness  of  the  “crack”  of  a rifle. 
Care  must  be  taken  that  the  sound  of  the  vowel  alone  be 
heard. 


EXERCISE  ON  VOWEL  ELEMENTS. 
Pronounce  each  word,  and  then  its  vowel  sounds. 

a as  heard  in  fate,  main,  say,  thgy,  fgint,  weigh,  break,  <fec. 

fv  “ “ mat,  hat,  partial,  &c. 

a “ “ bar,  car,  ah,  vaant,  heart,  gward,  <fec. 

a “ “ ball,  hall,  caifse,  sai^,  broad,  groat,  sought,  &c. 


20 


ARTICULATION. 


e as  heard  in  feel,  me,  sea,  neither,  \ey,  seize,  piece,  marine,  people,  &c. 
e “ let,  met,  tread,  said,  says,  friend,  heifer,  leopard,  gwess, 

many,  bt<ry,  &c. 

i “ “ mine,  pine,  lie,  %,  height,  guise,  aisle,  rye,  &c. 

i “ “ pit,  pin,  mountain,  forfeit,  guilt,  been,  seive,  busy, 

o ‘‘  ‘‘  old,  go,  door,  roam,  toe,  soul,  holloio,  bureau,  yeoman,  Ac. 

0 “ not,  hot,  blot,  trot,  Ac. 

“ “ what,  was,  swap,  Ac. 

0 “ “ move,  prove,  moon,  soup,  shoe,  Ac. 

u “ muse,  bkie,  juice,  heio,  viezo,  lieu,  feud,  beauty,  Ac. 

u “ “ full,  pull,  push,  bush,  Ac. 

“ “ zoool,  good,  book,  could,  Ac. 

u “ “ but,  hut,  cull,  Ac. 

‘‘  “ dove,  son,  blood,  does,  Ac. 

u “ “ curl,  fur,  bird,  her,  Ac. 

01  “ “ boil,  oil,  boy,  Ac. 

ou  “ “ our,  ground,  ozol,  pozoer,  Ac. 

Note. — After  the  pupil  has  been  faithfully  exercised  in  the  fore- 
going table,  it  will  be  well  to  require  him  to  explode  all  the  vowel 
elements  in  several  sentences  of  each  lesson  he  reads. 


CONSONANT  SOUNDS. 

It  may,  at  first  view,  seem  impossible  to  give  the  sound  of 
a consonant  alone ; but  a few  attempts  will  show,  that  although 
it  may  be  difiicult,  it  is  not  impossible.  It  is  true,  they  can 
not  be  exploded  with  the  force  which  vowel  sounds  admit,  yet 
they  can  all,  except  h,  f,  and  p,  be  pronounced  without  the 
aid  of  vowels,  and  their  sounds  prolonged  so  as  to  give  them 
great  distinctness. 

Let  the  syllable  ba  be  taken  for  example  ; and  in  pronoune 
ing  it,  let  the  voice  be  suddenly  suspended,  before  it  passes  to 
the  vowel.  In  this  manner,  every  consonant  element  should 
be  practiced  upon,  until  the  pupil  can  give  the  sound  forcibly 
and  distinctly.  Without  such  practice,  it  will  be  found  impos- 
sible to  utter  with  distinctness  such  combinations  of  conso- 
nants as  the  following,  viz. : waftedest,  slumber  dst,  searclidst, 
lash'dst,  Ac.  Articulation  is  more  frequently  defective  from 
an  imperfect  utterance  of  the  consonant  sounds,  than  from 
any  other  cause,  These,  therefore,  require  strict  attention. 


ARTICULATION. 


21 


The  following  are  the  consonant  elements  susceptible  of  explo- 
sive force  in  a greater  or  less  degree. 


b as 

heard 

in  babe. 

V as 

heard 

in  value. 

d 

a 

dead. 

y 

u 

yes. 

f 

(( 

/ie/ 

z 

u 

zeal,  adz. 

g 

a 

g^g- 

ng 

LL 

ring. 

b 

i*. 

hat. 

th 

U 

ihine^  tithe. 

j 

t*. 

jade,  lar^e. 

th 

U 

thrust,  norifA 

1 

a 

loll. 

ch 

a 

church. 

m 

li 

main. 

sh 

u 

shine,  da^A 

n 

u 

noon. 

wh 

u 

what,  whine. 

r 

u 

roar. 

zh 

n 

azure. 

s 

(1 

5ap,  pa55. 

When  the  pupil  has  acquired  some  facility  in  exploding  the 
foregoing  consonant  elements,  it  will  be  found  profitable  to 
require  him  to  combine  with  each  of  them,  .one  of  the  vowel 
elements,  giving  the  utmost  prolongation  to  the  consonant 
sound;  thus,  ah — h;  eh — h;  ih — h;  ad — d;  ed — d;  id — d; 
&c.,  &c.  Then  let  him  go  over  the  same  exercise,  placing  the 
consonant  first;  thus,  h — he;  d — de;  g — ga;  m — mo,  &c. 

EXERCISES 

ON  COMBINATIONS  OF  CONSONANT  ELEMENTS. 

Some  of  these  sentences  are  selected  with  reference  to  the  correction 
of  the  habit  of  dropping  the  unaccented  vowel. 

He  is  a man  of  great  sens^b^l^ty  and  su^eep^ibih'ty. 

The  swallow  twi^^ered  at  the  eaves. 

Can5^  thou  not  be  satisfied? 

He  beyyed  to  be  permii(^ed  to  stay. 

They  seareAecZ  the  house  ^joeedily. 

Whe^mee?  ami^/^^  the  wa?;e5. 

They  drayyee?  the  ruffian  to  prison. 

Bar<9fing  his  bon^f^,  he  sjorang  upon  the  foe. 

He  can  not  tolerate  a sophi^^. 

Shot  madly  from  ]is  sphoro. 

W /ien  will  the  lano?5cape  tire  the  view  ? 

The  lightnin^5  flashed. 

The  ^Aunde?*5  roareo?. 

The  hail  vattled. 

His  hfxnd.  in  mine  was  tondly  cVa.sped. 

StawcZ  your  grouse/,  my  braves. 

2 


22 


ARTICULATION. 


He  for  brea^A 

I T1  grapjt?le  with  my  country’s  foes. 

His  lim^5  were  ^ix^ngthened  by  exercise. 

They  cultivated  ^Aru^^  and  plan?'^. 

He  has  marshaM  his  ho5^5. 

He  sele<?^ed  his  te:r/^  with  c/reat  care. 

The  unsearcA<?c^  mine  h^th  not  sucA  gem^. 

Hi5  ^ip^^row  resth^s^  and  hi^  ^mile  is  Guvled  half  into  sciMm 
Her  ways  are  Avays  of  pleasan^fne^^, 

And  all  her  pa^fA^  are  peace. 

He  has  sing^tZ  hi^  Aair. 

What  furMer  wint'st  thou  for? 

She  milked  six  cows. 

Give  me  a j^rd  ^nd  thxQQ-mghths. 

Ha!  laug'A’.s^  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn7 
The  chill  prQQincts  of  the  narrow  house. 

0 breeze,  that  xv^ft'st  me  on  my  way! 

Thou  \)Yol)  dst  his  avou??^?^  too  freely. 

Thou  \)Qgg  dst  in  vain  for  mercy. 

Thou  wron^V,?^  thyself  and  me. 

Thou  trou5/’<A5^  thy  father  s frienci?^. 

Vaunf^^f  thou  thyself  of  thy  streng?:A  ? 

Thou  boa5^’«9^  of  what  should  be  thy  shame. 

Thou  plucAV^?:  a bitter  fruit. 

DisaA^t/^A  ^ixdmgt dst^  h\xrn  dst. 

Q\2isp  dst^  tYimkr dst^  respecfc/^A 
\j2ish!dst^  \mggT dst^  ^werv  dst. 

From  dejo^A^  unknown,  unsearcAable,  profound. 

For^A  Ywshed  the  Avander?!w(7  come?^^  girt  with  flames. 

When  Ajaa;  strwes  5ome  ro<:A’5  va,?^  weight  to  ^Arow, 

The  line,  too.  labo?'5  ^i\d  the  words  move  slow. 

One  hldiSt  upon  his  bugle-horn  were  worth  ten  thousano?  men. 

Life’s */i(/uA /ever  over,  he  sleeps  well. 

Thi5  scxxlptOY  has  executed  thvQQ  bu5^5. 

From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 

Leap5  the  live  thun<ier,  not /?'om  one  lone  cloud; 

But  every  mountam  720W  ha^fA  foun^^  a tongue, 

Anc?  Jiira  answers  /rom  her  mi^^y  ^Aroud, 

Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  Avho  call  to  her  aloud. 

When  thou  do5^  5care  the  world  with  tempg^/^,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  ^Aunderbo^^5,  or  fill’^^ 


Beware  of  running  words  together. 


ARTICULATION. 


23 


The  swift  dar^  whirl^nYid  that  uproo^5  the  VfOdds^ 

V/here  is  the  mortal  that  forge^f^  not  at  the  i^ight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 

Hi^  j>ridc,  and  lays  hi<s*  strifes  and  follies  by? 

Can^t  thou  fill  hf^  ^/vin  with  hixvhed  iron,?  ? 

He  was  distin^m^Ae^^  for  his  conscientiousness. 

From  5tar  to  ^tar  the  living  lightnin^^  j^ash, 

And  falling  t/iunders  tArough  all  ^pace  proclaim 
The  goin^5  fort  A of  Him  whose  pot^?nt  arm 
Perpetuat£;5  * existence  or  destroys. 

God  journeyetA^^  in  the  heavene.  Refu^^ent  stars 
And  glitiovmg  c^'owne  of  prostrate  seraphim 
F/mbo55*  his  Aurning  path.  ArouncA*  him  fall 
Dread  powers,  dominions,  hoet5,  and  kingly  tArones. 

That  morning,  thou  that  e/umberWet  not  before, 

Nor  sleep’et,  p?'eat  Ocean,  lai(i’5t  thy  waves*  at  reet, 

And  YmsK  dst  thy  mighty  minetreiey. 

Questions. — What  should  be  the  first  object  of  the  student  of  elo- 
cution? What  is  said  of  the  advantage  of  practice  upon  elementary 
sounds?  Which  are  the  vowel  elements?  Give  es  amples  of  each. 
(Let  the  pupil  explode  them  as  directed.)  AVhat  are  the  advantages 
of  thus  exploding  the  elementary  sounds  ? Can  the  consonants  be 
exploded?  Which  can  not,  and  why?  What  is  said  of  uttering  the 
consonants  distinctly?  (Let  the  pupil  explode  them  as  directed.) 


II.  INFLECTIONS. 


Inflection  is  abending,  or  sliding. of  the  voice  either 
uf)ward  or  downward,  ^ 

The  upward  or  rising  inflection  is  marked  by  the  acute 
accent,  thus,  (');  and  in  this  case  the  voice  is  to  slide 
upward ; as.  Did  you  call'  ? Is  he  sick'  ? 

The  doivnward  or  falling  inflection  is  marked  by  the 
grave  accent,  fhus,  (') ; and  indicates  that  the  voice  is  to 
slide  downward ; as,  AVhere  is  London'  ? Where  have 
you  been'  ? Who  has  come'  ? 


^'Beware  of  running  words  together. 


24 


INFLECTIONS. 


Sometimes  both  the  rising  and  falling  inflections  are 
given  to  the  same  sound.  Such  sounds  are  designated 
by  the  circumflex,  thus^  (^)  or  thus  (a).  The  former  is 
called  the  rising  circumflex ; the  latter  the  falling  cir- 
cumflex. 

When  several  successive  syllables  are  uttered  without 
either  the  upward  or  downward  slide^  they  are  said  to  be 
uttered  in  a monotone,  which  is  marked  thus,  (-), 


EXAMPLES. 


Does  he  read  correctly^  or  incorrectly^? 

In  reading  this  sentence,  the  voice  should  slide  somewhat  as 
represented  in  the  following  diagram : 


Does  he  read  cor- 


-ly? 


If  you  said  vinegar,  I said  sdgar. 
To  be  read  thus  : 


If  you  said 


I said 


If  you  said  yes,  I said  no. 
To  be  read  thus: 


If  you  saic  ,l  said 

What^’  did  he  say  no'? 

To  be  read  thus 


He  did^;  he  said  no'^ 
To  be  read  thus: 


Did  he  say  voluntarily',  or  involuntarily^? 


INFLECTIONS. 


26 


To  be  read  thus ; 


He  did  it  voluntarily',  not  involuntarily^. 
To  be  read  thus  ; 


EXERCISES. 

Do  they  act  prudently^,  or  imprudently'  ? 

Are  they  at  home^,  or  abroad'  ? 

Is  he  willing^,  or  unwilling'  ? 

Did  you  say  Europe^,  or  Asia'? 

Is  he  rich^,  or  poor'  ? 

Are  they  old^,  or  young'? 

He  said  pain',  not  pain^. 

You  should  walk',  not  ride^. 

Are  you  engaged^,  or  at  leisure'  ? 

Shall  I say  plain',  or  pain'  ? 

He  went  home',  not  abroad^. 

Does  he  say  able^,  or  table'? 

He  said  hazy',  not  lazy^. 

Must  I say  flat^,  or  flat'? 

Must  I say  cap^,  or  cap'? 

You  should  say  flat',  not  flat^. 

My  father^,  must  I stay^? 

Oh!  but  he  paflsed  upon  the  brink. 

It  shall  go  hard  with  me,  but  I shall  flse  the  weapon. 

Heard  ye  those  loud  contending  waves. 

That  shook  Cecropia’s  pillared  state^? 

Saw  ye  the  mighty  from  their  graves 
Look  up^,  and  tremble  at  her  fate^? 

Borne  by  the  tide  of  words  along^. 

One  voiced  one  mind^,  inspired  the  throng', 

“To  arms'!  to  arms'!  to  arms'!”  they  cry'; 

“Grasp  the  shield^,  and  draw  the  sword'; 

Lead  us  to  Phillippi’s  lord' ; 

Let  us  conquer^  him  or  die\” 


26 


INFLECTIONS. 


First^  Fear\  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try^, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid^; 

And  back  recoiled’,  he  knew  not  why^, 

E’en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made^. 

AVho  knoweth  the  power  of  thine  anger^  ? 

Even  according  to  thy  fear^,  so  is  thy  wrath\ 

Where  are  your  gibes^  now  ? your  gambols^  ? your  songs^  ? your 
flashes  of  merriment,  that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  in  a roar^  ? 

Thus  saith  the  High  and  lofty  One  that  inhabiteth  eternity, 
whose  name  is  Holy;  “I  dwell  in  the  high  and  holy  place.” 

Questions. — What  is  inflection?  How  does  the  voice  slide  in  the 
rising  inflection?  Give  an  example.  How,  in  the  falling  inflection? 
Give  an  example.  How  are  these  inflections  marked  ? Define  the 
circumflex.  The  monotone.  Give  an  example  of  each. 


FALLING  INFLECTION. 

Rule  I. — Sentences  and  clauses  which  make  complete 
sense  in  themselves,  require  the/a//m^  inflection. 

Remark. — This  rule  is  applicable,  whatever  may  be  the 
punctuation,  and  whatever  other  words  may  follow,  provided 
they  do  not  vary,  though  they  may  explain  or  strengthen,  the 
meaning  of  the  clause  preceding. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  By  virtue  we  secure  happiness^. 

2.  One  deed  of  shame  is  succeeded  by  years  of  penitenceV 

3.  For  thou  hast  said  in  thy  heart,  I will  ascend  into  heaven^: 
t will  extend  my  throne  above  the  stars  of  Cod'" : I will  sit  upon 
the  mount  of  the  congregation  in  the  sides  of  the  north\ 

4.  The  wind  and  the  rain  are  oveF;  calm  is  the  noon  of  the 
day'':  the  clouds  are  divided  in  heaven^;  over  the  green  hills  flies 
the  inconstant  sun^ ; red  through  the  stormy  vale  comes  down  the 
stream^. 

5.  This  proposition  was,  however,  rejected'*,  and  not  merely  re 
jected,  but  rejected  with  insult''. 

6.  There  was  a pause  of  death-like  stillness'*,  and  the  bold  heart 
of  Maepherson  grew  faint\ 

Exception  1. — Negative  sentences.  See  Rule  V- 


INFLECTIONS. 


27 


Exception  2. — Antithesis,  in  cases  where  the  first 
member  requires  the  falling  inflection.  See  Rule  IX, 
and  Exception  1 to  Rule  IV. 

Exception  3. — Where  harmony  of  sound  requires  the 
rising  inflection,  even  though  the  sense  should  be  com- 
plete. See  Rule  VI. 

Exception  4. — Emphasis.  See  Rule  II,  and  Article 
on  Emphasis  and  Inflection,  page  43. 

Rule  II. — The  language  of  emphasis  generally  re- 
quires the  falling  inflection, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Charge\  Chester,  charge^  on\  Stanley,  on\ 

2.  Were  I an  American,  as  I am  an  Englishman,  while  a single’^ 
foreign  troop'"  remained^  in  my  country,  I would  never'"  lay  down 
my  arms'' — never'",  never'",  never'". 

3.  Does  any  one  suppose  that  the  payment  of  twenty  shillings, 
would  have  ruined  Mr.  Hampden’s  fortune?  No\  But  the  pay- 
ment of  half'"  twenty  shillings,  on  the  principle'"  it  was  demanded, 
would  have  made  him  a slave'". 

4.  I insisO  upon  this  poinC:  1 urge''  you  to  it;  1 press'"  it,  de^ 
mand'"  it. 

5.  All  that  I have'",  all  that  I am\  and  all  that  I hope''  in  this 
life,  I am  now  ready^,  here^,  to  stake^  upon  it. 

6.  Hurra'"  1 hurra^I  a single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of 
war\ 

7.  To  arms^ ! they  come'" ! the  Greek'' ! the  Greek^  I 

8.  Hast  thou  not  spoke  like  thunder  on  my  side? 

Been  my  sworn  soldier?  bidding  me  depend 
Upon  thy'^  stars,  thy"^  fortune,  and  thy^  strength  ? 

Exception. — Emphasis  sometimes  reverses  this  rule, 
and  requires  the  rising  inflection^  apparently  for  the  pur- 
pose of  calling  attention  to  the  idea  by  an  unusual  man- 
ner of  expressing  it.  See  Art.  on  Emphasis,  page  40. 

Rule  III. — Interrogative  sentences  and  members  of 
sentences  which  can  not  be  answered  by  yes  or  no,  gen- 
erally require  the  falling  inflection. 


28 


INFLECTIONS. 


Hemark. — Such  questions  usually  commence  with  pro- 
nouns  or  adverhs  ; as,  how,  what,  who,  whence,  ivhere,  &c. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  How  many  books  did  he  purchase'^? 

2.  Why  reason  ye  these  things  in  your  hearts'^?  # 

3.  What  see^  you,  that  you  frown  so  heavily  to-day^? 

4.  Who  is  here  so  base  that  he  would  be  a bondman'^? 

5.  But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner^?  Where'"? 

6.  Ah!  what  is  that  flame  which  now  bursts  on  his  eye? 

7.  Whence  this  pleasing  hope\  this  fond  desire^, 

This  longing  after  immortality^? 

Exception. — When  questions^  usually  requiring  the 
falling  inflection,  are  emphatia  or  repeated,  they  take  the 
rising  inflection, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Where  did  you  say  he  had  gone^? 

2.  To  whom  did  you  say  the  blame  was  to  be  imputed^? 

3.  What  is^  he?  A knave.  What^  is  he?  A knave,  I say. 


RISING  INFLECTIONS. 

Rule  IV. — In  the  introductory  part  of  a sentence, 
where  the  sense  is  dependent  or  incomplete,  the  rising 
inflection  is  generally  used. 

Remark. — Wherever  there  is  a pause  of  any  kind  while 
the  sense  is  incomplete,  unless  the  falling  inflection  is  required 
by  emphasis  or  some  other  principle,  the  rising  inflection  is 
almost  invariably  used.  It  is  generally  very  slight,  requir- 
ing an  acute  and  educated  ear  to  discern  it,  and  it  is  difficult 
to  teach  pupils  to  distinguish  it,  though  they  constantly  use 
it.  It  is  only  necessary  to  read  a sentence  in  a strict  mono^ 
tone,  and  then  in  the  usual  manner,  to  be  convinced  of  this.  i 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Nature  being  exhausted^,  he  quietly  resigned  himself  to  bis 
fate. 

2.  As  the  whirlwind  passetlF,  so  the  wicked  are  no  more. 

3.  A chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound^, 

Cries'',  “Boatman,  do  not  tarry!” 


INFLECTIONS. 


29 


4.  As  he  spoke  without  fear  of  consequences^,  so  his  actions 
were  marked  with  the  most  unbending  resolution. 

5.  Speaking  in  the  open  air^,  at  the  top  of  the  voice^,  is  an  ad- 
mirable exercise. 

6.  If  then,  his  Providence^,  out  of  our  evil,  seek  to  bring  forth 
good^,  our  labor  must  be  to  prevent  that  end. 

7.  He^,  born  for  the  universe^,  narrowed  his  mind, 

And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 

Remark. — Words  used  for  the  person  or  thing  ad- 
dressed, are  included  in  this  rule. 

8.  Brother',  give  me  thy  hand;  and,  gentle  Warwick', 

Let  me  embrace  thee  in  my  weary  arms. 

9.  0 Lancaster',  I fear  thy  overthrow. 

10.  Ye  crags'  and  peaks'  I ’m  with  you  once  again. 

Exception  1. — Relative  emphasis  often  reverses  this 
and  the  first  rule,  because  emphasis  is  here  expressed  in 
part  by  changing  the  usual  inflections. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  If  you  care  not  for  your  property^^  you  surely  value  your  life'. 

2.  If  you  will  not  labor  for  your  own^  advancement,  you  should 
regard  that  of  your  children'. 

3.  It  is  your  place  to  obei/^^  not  to  command' 

4.  Though  by  that  course  he  should  not  destroy  his  reputation^, 
he  will  lose  all  self-respect'. 

Exception  2. — The  names  of  persons  addressed  in  a 
formal  speech,  or  when  used  emphatically,  have  the  falU 
ing  inflection, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers'^,  hear  me  for  my  cause,  &c. 

2.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury^,  1 solicit  your  attention,  Ac. 

3.  O HuberP,  HuberP,  save  me  from  these  men. 

Rule  V. — Negative  sentences  and  members  of  sen- 
tences usually  require  the  rising  inflection, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  It  is  not  by  starts  of  application  that  eminence  can  be  at- 
tained'. 


3 


30 


INFLECTIONS. 


2.  It  was  not  an  eclipse  that  caused  the  darkness  at  the  cruci- 
fixion of  our  Lord^ ; for  the  sun  and  moon  were  not  relatively  in  a 
position^  to  produce  an  eclipse^. 

3.  They  are  not  fighting^:  do  not  disturb^  them:  this  man  is 
not  expiring  with  agoiiy^:  that  man  is  not  dead^:  they  are  only 
pausing^. 

4.  My  Lord,  we  could  not  have  had  such  designs^. 

5.  It  is  not  sufficient  that  you  wish^  to  be  useful;  you  must 
nurse  those  wishes  into  action. 

6.  It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright^, 

But  for  your  winsome  lady. 

7.  You  are  not  left  alone  to  climb  the  steep  ascent^:  God  is  with 
you,  who  never  suffers  the  spirit  that  rests  on  him  to  fail. 

Exception  1. — Emphasis  may  reverse  this  rule. 

EXAMPLE. 

We  repeat  it,  we  do  nof^  desire  to  produce  discord;  we  do  not'^ 
wish  to  kindle  the  flames  of  a civil  war. 

Exception  2. — General  propositions  usually  have  the 
fallinq  inilection, 

EXAMPLE. 

God  is  not  the  author  of  sin\  Thou  shalt  not  kill'. 

Rule  VI. — When  a sentence  closes  with  the  falling 
infleGtioriy  the  rising  inflection^  for  the  sake  of  harmony, 
often  precedes  it. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  He  fought  the  Scythian  in  his  cave^,  and  the  unconquered 
Arab  fled  before'  him. 

2.  Be  perfect',  be  of  good  comfort',  be  of  one.  mind^.  live  in 
peace'. 

3.  They  have  forgotten  their  distresses' ; every  sorrow  is  hushed^; 
and  every  pang  extinguished'. 

Exception. — Emphasis  may  reverse  this  rule. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Eloquence  is  action';  noble',  sublime',  godlike  action'. 

2.  If  you  care  not  for  your  life',  respect  your  honor'. 

Rule  VII. — Interrogative  sentences  and  members  of 


INFLECTIONS. 


31 


sentences  which  can  be  answered  by  yes  or  no,  generally 
require  tlie  rising  inflection, 

IIemark. — Such  sentences  most  commonly  commence 
with  verbs, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary  to  a work  of  love  and  recon- 
ciliatioi/  ? 

2.  Do  we  meac  to  submit^? 

3.  Does  the  gentleman  suppose  it  is  in  his  power^,  to  exhibit  in 
Carolina  a name  so  bright^  as  to  produce  envy^  in  my  bosom  ? 

4.  If  it  be  admitted,  that  strict  integrity  is  not  the  shortest  way 
to  success,  is  it  not  the  surest^,  the  happiest^,  the  best^? 

5.  Is  there  not  rain  enough  in  the  sweet  heavens. 

To  wash  this  crimson  hand  as  white  as  snow^? 

Exception. — Emphasis  may  reverse  this  rule. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Can^  you  be  so  blind  to  your  interest?  Will^  you  rush  head 
long  to  destruction? 

2.  I ask  again,  is^  there  no  hope  of  reconciliation  ? Musf^  wo 
abandon  all  our  fond  anticipations? 

3.  Will  you  deny^  it?  Will  3"ou  deny^  it? 

4.  Am  I Dromio^?  Am  I your  man^?  Am  I myself^  1 
Rule  VIII. — Interrogative  exclamations^  and  words 

repeated  as  a kind  of  echo  to  the  thought,  require  the 
rising  inflection, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Where  grows^,  where  grows  it  not^  ? 

2.  What^ ! Might  Rome  have  been  taken^  ? Rome  taken  when 
I was  consuF? 

3.  Banished  from  Rome^!  Tried  and  convicted  traitor^! 

4.  Prince  Henry.  What’s  the  matter''? 

Falstaff.  What ’s  the  matter^?  Here  be  four  of  us  have  taken 
a thousand  pounds  this  morning. 

Prince  H Where  is'  it,  Jack,  where  is'  it? 

Fal  Where  is^  it?  Taken  from  us,  it  is. 

5.  Ha^ ! laughest  thou  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 

6.  And  this  fellow  calls  himself  a painter.  A painter^!  He  is 
not  fit  to  daub  the  sign  of  a paltry  ale-house. 


32 


INFLECTIONS. 


7.  And  this  man  is  called  a statesman.  A statesman^  ? Why, 
he  never  invented  a decent  humbug. 

8.  Six  moons  are  his,  by  Herschel  shown; 

HerscheF,  of  modern  times  the  boast. 

9.  1 can  not  say,  sir,  which  of  these  motives  influence  the  ad- 
vocates of  the  bill  before  us;  a bilF,  in  which  such  cruelties  are 
proposed  as  are  yet  unknown  among  the  most  savage  nations. 

10.  The  man  who  was  not  only  pardoned,  but  distinguished  by 
you  with  the  highest  honors,  is  charged  with  an  intention  to  kill 
you  in  your  own  house:  an  intention^,  of  which,  unless  you  imag- 
ine that  he  is  utterly  deprived  of  reason,  you  can  not  suspect  him. 


RISING  AND  FALLING  INFLECTIONS. 

Rule  IX. — Words  and  members  of  a sentence  express- 
ing antithesis  or  contrast  recpiire  opposite  inflections, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  It  is  sown  in  corruption^;  it  is  raised  in  incorruptionV 

2.  It  is  sown  a naturaF  body;  it  is  raised  a spirituaF  body. 

3.  By  honor^  and  dishonor^  by  eviF  report  and  good^  report; 
as  deceivers^  and  yet  true\ 

4.  What  they  know  by  reading^,  I know  by  experienceb 

5.  I could  honor  thy  courage^,  but  I detest  thy  crimes\ 

6.  They  slight  my  mean  birtlF;  I despise  their  mean  character8\ 

7.  It  is  easier  to  forgive  the  Aveak',  who  have  injured  us^,  than 
the  powerfuF  whom  we''  have  injured. 

8.  When  we  fail,  our  pride  supports^  us;  when  we  succeed,  it 
betrays^  us. 

9.  Homer  was  the  greater  genius^,  Virgil  the  better  artistb 

10.  The  style  of  Dry  den  is  capricious  and  varied^;  that  of  Pope 
is  cautious  and  uniform'.  Dryden  obeys  the  motions  of  his  own 
mind^ ; Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of  composition'. 
Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement  and  rapid^;  Pope  is  always  smooth, 
uniform,  and  gentle'.  Dryden’s  page  is  a natural  field,  rising  into 
inequalities,  varied  by  exuberant  vegetation^;  Pope’s  is  a velvet 
lawn,  shaven  by  the  scythe  and  leveled  by  the  roller'. 

11.  If  the  flights  of  Dryden  are  higher^.  Pope  continues  longer 
on  the  wing'.  If  the  blaze  of  Dryden’s  fire  is  brighter^,  the  heat 
of  Pope’s  is  more  regular  and  constant'.  Dryden  often  surpasses^ 
expectation,  and  Pope  never  falls  below'  it. 


INFLECTIONS. 


33 


Remark  1. — Words  and  members  connected  by  or  used 
disjunctively,  generally  express  contrast  or  antithesis,  and 
always  receive  opposite  inflections. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Shall  Ave  advance^,  or  retreaC  ? 

2.  Do  you  seek  wealtl/,  or  power^  ? 

- 3.  Is  the  great  chain  upheld  by  Grod^,  or  thee'  ? 

4.  Does  he  speak  rationally^,  or  irrationally'? 

5.  Is  the  book  youiV,  or  mine'  ? 

6.  Shall  we  return  to  our  allegiance  while  we  may  do  so  .with 
safety  and  honor^,  or  shall  we  wait  until  the  ax  of  the  executioner 
is  at  our  throats'? 

7.  Shall  we  crown^  the  author  of  these  public  calamities  wdth 
garlands^,  or  shall  we  wrest'  from  him  his  ill-deserved  authority'? 

Remark  2. — When  the  antithesis  is  between  affirmation 
and  negation,  the  latter  usually  has  the  rising  inflection, 
according  to  Rule  V. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  You  were  paid  to  fight'  against  Philip,  not  to  raiP  at  him. 

2.  1 said  rationally',  not  irrationally^ 

3.  I did  not  say  rationally^,  but  irrationally'. 

4.  I said  an  elder'  soldier,  not  a better^ 

5.  I did  not  say  a better^  soldier,  but  an  elder'. 

6.  Let  us  retract  while  we  can',  not  when  we  musP. 

Remark  3. — The  more  emphatic  member  generally  re-- 
ceives  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  A countenance  more  in  sorrow',  than  angeP'. 

2.  A countenance  less  in  anger^,  than  sorrow'. 

3.  He  deserved  punishment',  rather  than  pity^. 

4.  You  should  show  your  courage  by  deeds',  rather  than  by 
wordsG 

5.  If  we  can  not  remove'  pain,  we  may  alleviate^  it. 


OF  SERIES. 

A SERIES  is  a number  of  particulars  consisting  of 
words  or  clauses , immediately  following  one  another  in 
the  same  grammatical  construction. 


INFLECTIONS. 


A series  is  simple^  when  it  consists  of  words. 

Example. — Faith^  hope^  love^  joy^  are  the  fruits  of  the  spirit. 

A series  is  compound,  when  it  consists  of  clauses. 

EXAMPLE. 

So  many  hum.an  frailties^  so  many  secret  sins,  so  many  offenses  of 
ignorance,  so  many  unguarded  ivords,  are  connected  with  man’s  best 
estate,  &c. 

A commencing  series  is  one  which  commences  a sentence 
or  clause. 

Example. — Faith,  hope,  love,  joy,  are  the  fruits  of  the  spirit. 

A concluding  series  is  one  which  concludes  a sentence 
or  a clause. 

Example. — The  fruits  of  the  spirit  are  faith,  hope,  love,  and  joy. 

Rule  X. — All  the  members  of  a commencing  series 
usually  require  the  falling  inflection,  except  the  last, 
which  receives  the  rising  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  War'',  famine''  pestilence'',  storm\  and  fire^,  besiege  mankind, 

2.  Harsh\  oppressive\  unjusU,  and  uncalled^  for  measures,  will 
always  be  resisted  by  a free  people. 

3.  The  knowledge^,  the  power'',  the  wisdonC,  the  goodness^  of 
God,  must  all  be  unbounded. 

4.  The  poor^,  the  aged\  the  sick''  and  the  wounded^,  were  left 
to  perish. 

5.  To  advise  the  ignoranU,  to  relieve  the  needy\  and  to  comfort 
the  afflicted^,  are  duties  that  fall  in  our  way,  almost  every  day  of 
our  lives. 

6.  No  state  chicanery\  no  narrow  system  of  vicious  politics^,  no 
idle  contest  for  ministerial  victories^,  sank  him  to  the  vulgar  level 
of  the  great. 

7.  For  solidity  of  reasoning^  force  of  sagacity\  and  wisdom  of 
conclusion^,  no  nation  or  body  of  men  can  compare  with  the  Con- 
gress at  Philadelphia. 

8.  The  wise  and  the  foolislP,  the  virtuous  and  the  eviP,  the 
learned  and  the  ignoranU,  the  temperate  and  the  profligate^,  must 
often  be  blended  together. 


1 NFLECTIONS. 


35 


9.  Absalom’s  beauty^,  Jonathan’s  love\  David’s  valor^,  Solomon’s 
wisdom^,  the  patience  of  Job^,  the  prudence  of  Aagustus\  and  the 
eloquence  of  Cicero',  are  found  in  perfection  in  the  Creator. 

Rule  XI. — All  the  members  of  a concluding  series, 
usually  require  the  falling  inflection,  except  tli'3  last  but 
one,  which  has  the  rising  inflection, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  It  is  our  duty  to  pity^,  to  support,  to  defend',  and  to  relieve' 
the  oppressed. 

2.  At  the  sacred  call  of  country,  they  sacrifice  property',  ease', 
health',  applause',  and  even  life'. 

3.  I protest  against  this  measure  as  cruel',  oppressive',  tyran- 
nous', and  vindictive'. 

4.  God  was  manifest  in  the  flesh',  justified  in  the  spirit',  seen 
of  angels',  preached  unto  the  Gentiles',  believed  on  in  the  world', 
and  received  up  into  glory. 

5.  Charity  is  not  puffed  up',  doth  not  behave  itself  unseemly', 
is  not  easily  provoked',  thinketh  no  evil',  rejoiceth  in  the  truth', 
beareth'  all  things,  believeth'  all  things,  hopeth'  all  things,  endur- 
eth'  all  things. 

6.  Nature  has  laid  out  all  her  art  in  beautifying  the  face;  she 
has  touched  it  with  vermillion',  planted  it  with  a double  row  of 
ivory',  made  it  the  seat  of  smiles  and  blushes',  lighted  it  up  and 
relieved  it  with  the  brightness  of  the  eyes',  hung  it  ou  each  side 
with  curious  organs  of  sense',  given  it  airs  and  graces  which  can 
not  be  described',  and  surrounded  it  with  such  a flowing  shade  of 
hair  as  sets  all  its  beauties  in  the  most  agreeable  light. 

Exception  1. — When  the  particulars  enumerated  in  a 
commencing  or  concluding  series  are  not  at  all  emphatic, 
they  receive  the  usual  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  New  York',  Boston',  Philadelphia',  and  Cincinnati',  are  large 
cities. 

2.  He  was  esteemed  for  his  kindness',  his  intelligence'  his  self- 
denial',  and  his  active  benevolence. 

Exception  2. — In  a series  forming  a climax,  it  is  not 
unusual  to  reserve  the  falling  inflection  for  the  last  term 
alone. 


36 


INFLECTIONS. 


EXAMPLES. 

1.  Oajs^,  months^,  years^,  and  ages',  shall  cii  cle  away, 

And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll. 

2.  Property^,  character^,  reputation"',  every'  thing  was  sacrificed 

3.  Toils^,  sufferings^,  wounds^,  and  death',  was  the  price  of  our 
liberty. 

Exception  3. — When  all  the  terms  are  strongly  em- 
phatic, they  sometimes  all  receive  the  falling  inflection. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  They  saw  not  one  man',  not  one  woman',  not  one  child',  not 
one  four-footed  beast'. 

• 2.  His  hopes',  his.  happiness',  his  life',  hung  upon  the  words  that 
fell  from  those  lips. 

3.  They  fought',  they  bled',  they  died',  for  freedom. 


REMARKS  ON  SERIES. 

Remark  1. — The  preceding  rules  are  those  given  by  most 
standard  authors  on  this  subject,  both  American  and  English. 
One  or  two  authors,  however,  propose  the  following  method 
for  avoiding  monotony. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Desire^,  aversion^,  rage',  love',  hope',  and  fear"',  are  drawn  in 
miniature  upon  the  stage. 

2.  Joy',  grief',  fear^,  anger^,  pity^,  scorn',  hate',  jealousy',  and 
love^,  stamp  assumed  distinction  upon  the  player. 

3.  Mr.  Locke’s  definition  of  wit  comprehends  metaphors^,  enig- 
mas^, mottoes^,  parables',  fables',  dreams',  visions^,  dramatic  writ- 
ings^, burlesque^,  and  all  the  methods  of  allusion'. 

Remark  2. — Where  a series  consists  of  more  than  five 
members,  one  author  proposes  its  division  into  two  or  moie 
partft^  as  in  the  following 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Neither  blindness^,  nor  gout^,  nor  age^,  nor  penury',  nor  do- 
mestic afflictions^,  nor  political  disappointments',  nor  abuse^,  nor 
proscription',  nor  neglect',  had  power  to  disturb  him. 

2.  Herodotus',  Xenophon',  Pericles'  Phocion',  Thales',  Solon', 
Chilo',  Pittacus',  Rias',  Cleobolus',  Periander',  Thucydides',  Soc- 
rates', Plato'.  Aristotle',  d Socrates',  Lysias',  Themistocles',  Demos* 


INFLECTIONS. 


37 


fchenes\  Pindar^,  Phidias^,  Euripides^,  Apelles',  and  Aristides^, 
were  distinguished  men. 

Remark  3. — The  only  correct  rules  upon  this  or  any  sub- 
ject connected  with  language,  are  merely  a record  of  good 
usage^  that  is,  such  as  is  authorized  by  a majority  of  the  best 
speakers  and  writers  of  the  day.  It  is  becoming  more  com- 
mon than  formerly  for  speakers  to  deliver  the  whole  of  a coiv 
eluding  series  with  the  falling  inflection  and  the  whole  of  a 
commencing  series  with  the  rising  inflection^  and  it  is  not  im- 
probable that  this  may  be  ere  long  the  prevailing  custom. 


PARENTHESIS. 

Rule  XII. — A clause  included  in  a parenthesis,  should 
be  read  more  rapidly  and  in  a lower  tone  than  the  rest 
of  the  sentence,  and  should  terminate  with  the  same  in- 
flection that  next  precedes  it.  If,  however,  it  is  compli- 
cated, or  emphatic,  or  disconnected  with  the  main  sub- 
ject, the  inflections  must  be  governed  by  the  same  rules 
as  in  other  cases. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  God  is  my  witness'  (whom  I serve  with  my  spirit,  in  the 
gospel  of  his  Son',)  that,  without  ceasing,  1 make  mention  of  you 
always  in  my  prayers,  making  request',  (if,  by  any  means,  now  at 
length,  1 might  have  a prosperous  journey  by  the  will  of  God',) 
to  come  unto  you. 

2.  When  he  had  entered  the  room  three  paces,  he  stood  still; 
and  laying  his  left  hand  upon  his  breast',  (a  slender,  white  staff 
with  which  he  journeyed  being  in  his  right',)  he  introduced  him- 
self with  the  little  story  of  his  convent. 

3.  If  you,  yEschines,  in  particular,  were  persuaded',  (and  it  was 
no  particular  affection  for  me,  that  prompted  you  to  give  up  the 
hopes,  the  appliances,  the  honors,  which  attended  the  course  I then 
advised;  but  the  superior  force  of  truth,  and  your  utter  inability 
to  point  any  course  more  eligible',)  if  this  was  the  case,  I say,  is 
it  not  highly  cruel  and  unjust  to  arraign  these  measures  now, 
when  you  could  not  then  propose  a better? 

4.  As  the  hour  of  conflict  drew  near'  (and  this  was  a conflict  to 
be  dreaded  even  by  him'),  he  began  to  waver  and  to  abate  much 
of  his  boastmg 


38 


INFLECTIONS. 


CmCUMFLEX. 

RuL.fi  XIII. — The  circumflex  is  used  to  express  irony ^ 
sarcasm,  hypothesis^  or  contrast, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  But  nobody  can  bear  the  death  of  Clodius. 

2.  Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be,  blest. 

3.  They  follow  an  adventurer  whom  they  fear;  we  serve  a mon- 
arch whom  we  love.  They  boast,  they  come  but  to  improve  our 
state,  enlarge  our  thoughts,  and  free  us  from  the  yoke  of  error. 
Yes,  they  will  give  enlightened  freedom  to  our  minds,  who  are 
themselves  the  slaves  of  passion,  avarice,  and  pride.  They  offer 
us  their  protection : yes,  such  protection  as  vultures  give  to  lambs, 
covering  and  devouring  them. 


MONOTONE. 

Rule  XIV. — The  use  of  the  monotone  is  confined 
chiefly  to  grave  and  solemn  subjects.  When  carefully 
and  properly  employed^  it  gives  great  dignity  to  de- 
livery. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  The  unbeliever!  one  who  can  gaze  upon  the  sun,  and  moon, 
and  stars,  and  upon  the  unfading  and  imperishable  sky,  spread 
out  so  magnificently  above  him,  and  say,  “All  this  is  the  work  of 
chance ! ” 

2.  God  walketh  upon  the  ocean.  Brilliantly 
The  glassy  waters  mirror  back  his  smiles; 

The  surging  billoAVs,  and  the  gamboling  storms 
Come  crouching  to  his  feet. 

3 1 hail  thee,  as  in  gorgeous  robes. 

Blooming,  thou  leav’st  the  chambers  of  the  east, 

Crowned  with  a gemmed  tiara  thick  embossed 
With  studs  of  living  light. 

4.  High  on  a throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind; 

Or  where  the  gdrgeous  east,  with  richest  hand, 

Showers  on  her  kings,  barbaric  pearls  and  gold, 

Satan  exalted  sat 


ACCENT  AND  EMTHaSIS. 


39 


5.  His  broad  expanded  wings 

Lay  calm  and  motionless  upon  the  air, 
As  if  he  floated  there  without  their  aid, 
By  the  sOle  act  of  his  unlorded  will. 


Questions. — Name  the  several  principles  which  govern  the  use  of 
the  falling  inflection.  Give  an  example  of  each.  In  what  cases  is 
the  rising  inflection  used?-  Give  examples.  In  what  cases  are  the 
two  inflections  united  in  the  same  sentence?  What  is  antithesis? 
Give  the  rule  for  antithesis.  How  does  the  disjunctive  or  influence 
the  inflection?  Give  an  example.  What  is  a series?  A commencing 
series?  A concluding  series?  Give  an  example  of  each.  What  is  a 
simple  series  ? A compound  series?  Give  the  rule  for  a commencing 
series.  For  a concluding  series.  Give  examples.  What  are  the  re- 
marks upon  them?  What  is  the  rule  for  inflection  in  a clause  con- 
tained in  a parenthesis?  When  is  the  circumflex  used?  When  is  the 
monotone  used? 


III.  ACCENT  AND  EMPHASIS. 


ACCENT. 


That  syllable  in  a word  which  is  uttered  more  forcibly 
than  the  others,  is  said  to  be  accented;  as  the  italicized  sylla- 
bles in  the  following  words ; 


mom^ing, 

(y^rant, 

pro-carg^, 

dC:-bate\ 


po5^si-ble, 

re-c?tm^bent, 

ex-o?'^bi-tant, 

com-pre-A^n^sive. 


Accent  when  marked,  is  denoted  by  the  same  characters 
as  those  used  in  inflection;  the  acute  accent,  by  (^),  and 
the  grave,  by  (^).  The  latter  is  merely  a nominal  distinc- 
tion, and  means  only,  that  the  syllable  thus  marked  is  not 
accented  at  all. 

Common  usage  alone  determines  upon  what  syllable  the 
accent  should  be  placed,  and  to  the  lexicographer  it  belongs, 
to  ascertain  and  record  its  decision  on  this  point. 

In  some  few  cases,  we  can  trace  the  reasons  for  common 
usage  in  this  respect.  In  words  which  are  used  as  different 
parts  of  speech,  or  which  have  different  meanings,  the  dis- 
tinction is  sometimes  denoted  by  changing  the  accent. 


40 


ON  EMPHASIS. 


EXAMPLES. 


sub^ject. 

sub-jecP, 

pres^ent, 

pre-sen  P, 

ab^senf 

ab-senP, 

cem^ent, 

ce-menP, 

con^jure, 

con-jure'. 

There  is  another  case,  in  which  we  discover  the  reason  for 
changing  the  accent,  and  that  is,  when  it  is  required  by  em= 
phasis,  as  in  the  following 

EXAMPLES. 

His  a^^7^ity  or  {n^ahility  to  perform  the  act  material!}^  varies 
the  case. 

This  corrwp^tion  must  put  on  zVcorruption. 

In  words  of  more  than  two  syllables,  there  is  often  a second 
accent  given,  but  more  slight  than  the  principal  one,  and 
this  is  called  the  secondary  accent;  as,  car  ' ^2iVan^  ^ rep^nrtee"  ^ 
where  the  principal  accent  is  marked  and  the  secondary, 
(^) ; so,  also,  this  accent  is  obvious,  in  nav^\ga"i\on^  com^- 
pre^e?i^^sion,  p?ai^^si-6i*P^ity,  &c.  The  whole  subject,  how- 
ever, properly  belongs  to  dictionaries  and  spelling-books. 


ON  EMPHASIS. 

Emphasis  consists  in  a certain  manner  of  uttering  a 
word  or  phrase^  designed  to  give  it  force  and  energy, 
and  to  draw  the  attention  of  the  hearer,  particularly, 
to  the  idea  thereby  expressed. 

This  is  most  frequently  accomplished  by  an  increased  stress 
of  voice  laid  upon  the  word  or  phrase.  Sometimes,  though 
more  rarely,  the  same  object  is  effected  by  an  unusual  lower- 
ing of  the  voice,  even  down  to  a Avhisper. 

The  inflections,  also,  are  made  subsidiary  to  this  object. 
To  give  emphasis  to  a word,  the  inflection  is  often  changed  or 
increased  in  force  or  extent.  Where  the  rising  inflection  is 
ordinarily  used,  the  word,  when  emphatic,  frequently  takes 
the  falling  inflection ; and  sometimes,  also,  the  falling  inflec- 
tion is  changed  into  the  rising,  for  the  same  purpose. 

Emphatic  words  are  often  denoted  by  being  written  in 
italics,  in  SMALL,  or  in  LARGE  CAPITALS. 


ON  EMPHASIS. 


41 


ABSOLUTE  EMPHASIS. 

Whe^e  the  emphasis  is  independent  of  any  contrast 
or  comparison  with  other  words  or  ideas^  it  is  called 
absolute  emphasis, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  We  praise  thee,  O God;  we  acknowledge  thee  to  be  the  Lord. 

2.  Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll. 

3.  Arm^  warriors,  ar7n ! 

4.  A"ou  know  that  you  are.  Brutus,  that  speak  this, 

Or,  by  the  gods^  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

5.  Hamlet.  Saw  whoT 

Horatio.  The  king.,  your  father. 

Hamlet.  The  king.,  my  father"^ 

6.  The  game  's  afoot: 

Follow  your  spirit,  and  upon  this  charge, 

Cry  ^‘God  for  Harry,  England,  and  St  George 

7.  She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight, 

Thy  sun,  thy  heaven  of  lost  delight. 

8.  The  old  Lion  of  England  grows  youthful  again: 

He  rouses — he  rises — he  bristles  his  mane. 

9.  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 

Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires; 

Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires; 

God — and  your  native  land  I 


RELATIVE  EMPHASIS 

Where  there  is  antithesis^  either  expressed  or  implied, 
the  emphasis  is  called  relative, 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  We  can  do  nothing  against  the  truth,  but  for  the  truth. 

2.  But  I am  describing  your  condition,  rather  than  my  own. 

3.  I fear  not  death,  and  shall  I then  fear  thee^^ 

4.  Hunting  men,  and  not  beasts,  shall  be  his  game. 

5.  He  is  the  propitiation  for  our  sins ; and  not  for  ours  only,  but 
for  the  sins  of  the  whole  world. 

6.  It  may  moderate  and  restrain,  but  was  not  designer!  to  banish 
gladness  from  the  heart  of  man. 


42 


ON  EMPHASIS. 


In  the  following  examples,  there  are  two  sets  of  an- 
titheses in  the  same  sentence. 

7.  Jolm  WHS  punished ; William^  rewarded. 

8.  Without  were  fightings.^  within  Avere  fears. 

9.  Business  SAveetens  pleasure^  as  labor  sweetens  rest. 

10.  Justice  appropriates  rewards  to  merits  and  punishments  to 
crime. 

11.  On  the  one  side,  all  was  alacrity  and  courage;  on  the  other. 
all  was  timidity  and  indecision. 

12.  The  wise  man  is  happy  when  he  gains  his  own  approbation; 
the  fool.,  when  he  gains  the  applause  of  others. 

13.  His  care  Avas  to  polish  the  country  ^by  art,  as  he  had  prO' 
tected  it  by  arms. 

In  the  following  examples  the  relative  emphasis  is 
applied  to  three  sets  of  antithetic  words. 

14.  The  difference  between  a madman  and  a fool  is,  that  the 
former  reasons  justly  from  false  data:  and  the  latter,  erroneously 
from  just  data. 

15.  He  raised  a mortal  to  the  skies, 

She  dreAV  an  angel  down. 

Sometimes  the  antithesis  is  implied,  as  in  the  following 
instances. 

16.  The  spirit  of  the  white  man’s  heaven, 

Forbids  not  thee  to  weep. 

17.  What!  while  our  arms  can  Avield  these  blades. 

Shall  Ave  die  tamely  ? die  alone  f 

18.  At  my  nativity, 

•The  front  of  heaven  Avas  full  of  fiery  shapes. 

Of  burning  cressets ; and  at  my  birth, 

The  frame  and  huge  foundation  of  the  earth 
Shook  like  a coward. 


EMPHASIS  AND  ACCENT. 

Wlien  words,  which  are  the  same  in  part  of  their  foi'- 
Illation,  are  contrasted,  the  emphasis  is  expressed  by 
accenting  the  syllable  in  which  they  differ.  See  Accent, 
page  40o 


ON  EMPHASIS. 


43 


EXAMPLES. 

1.  What  is  the  difference  between  jo?'o6abiiity  and  joc^sibility  ? 

2.  Learn  to  unlearn  what  you  have  learned  amiss. 

3.  John  attends  r^-^ularly,  William,  2Vregularly. 

4.  There  is  a great  difference  between  ^zi’ing  and  /orgiving. 

5.  The  conduct  of  Antoninus  was  characterized  by  justice  and 
humanity;  that  of  Nero,  by  mjustice  and  whumanity. 

6.  The  conduct  of  the  former  is  deserving  of  approbation,  while 
that  of  the  latter  merits  the  severest  r(?probation. 


EMPHASIS  AND  INFLECTION. 

Emphasis  sometimes  changes  the  inflection  from  the 
rising  to  the  fallings  or  from  the  falling  to  the  rising. 
For  instances  of  the  former  change,  see  Rule  II,  and 
exception  to  Rule  IV.  In  the  first  three  following  ex- 
amples, the  inflection  is  changed  from  the  rising  to  the 
falling  inflection ; in  the  last  three,  if  is  changed  from 
the  falling  to  the  rising,  by  the  influence  of  emphasis. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  If  we  have  no  regard  for  religion  in  youtJi^^  Ave  ought  to  have 
respect  for  it  in  age. 

2.  If  Avo  have  no  regard  for  our  own^  character,  Ave  ought  to  re- 
gard the  character  of  others. 

3.  If  content  can  not  remove^  the  disquietudes  of  life,  it  will,  at 
least,  alleviate  them. 

4.  The  SAveetest  melody  and  the  most  perfect  harmony,  fall  pow- 
erless upon  the  ear  one  who  is  deaf . 

5.  It  is  useless  to  expatiate  upon  the  beauties  of  nature  to  one 
who  is  hlind\ 

6.  And  they  that  have  believing  masters,  let  them  not  despise 
them,  because  they  are  hrethrerd ; but  rather  let  them  do  them 
service. 


EMPHATIC  PHRASE. 

When  it  is  desired  to  give  to  a phrase  great  force  of 
expression,  each  word,  and  even  the  parts  of  a compound 
word,  are  independently  emphasized. 


44 


ON  EMPHASIS. 


EXAMPLES. 

1.  Cassius.  Must  I endure  all  this? 

Brutus.  All  this ! — Ay^ — more.  Fret,  till  your  proud — heart — 
break. 

2.  What!  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 

Our  Caesar’s  vesture  wounded?  Look  ye  here, 

Here  is  himself. 

3.  There  was  a time,  my  fellow-citizens,  when  the  Lacedaemo- 
nians were  sovereign  masters,  both  by  sea  and  by  land;  while  this 
state  had  not  one  ship — no,  not — one — wall. 

4.  Shall  I,  the  conqueror  of  Spain  and  Gaul;  and  not  only  of 
the  Alpine  nations,  but  of  the  Alps  themselves;  shall  1 compare 
myself  with  this  half — year — captain? 

5.  You  call  me  misbeliever — cut-throat — dog. 

Hath  a dog — money"}  Is  it  possible — 

A cur  can  lend  three — thousand — ducats'} 


EMPHATIC  PAUSE. 

A sTiort  pause  is  often  made  before  or  after,  and  some- 
times both  before  and  after  an  emphatic  word  or  phrase, 
thus  very*  much  increasing  the  emphatic  expression  of  the 
thought. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  May  one  be  pardoned,  and  retain — the  offense? 

In  the  corrupted  currents  of  this  world. 

Offense’s  gilded  hand  may  shove  by — justice; 

. And  oft  ’tis  seen,  the  wicked  prize  itself 
Buys  out  the  law:  but  ’t  is  not  so — abovt: 

There — is  no  shuffling;  there — the  action  lies 
In  its  true  nature. 

2.  Are  not  these  woods 

More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  courts? 

Here — feel  we  but  the  penalty  of  Adam, 

The  season’s  difference. 

3.  This — is  no  flattery:  These — are  counselors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I am. 

And  this — our  life  exempt  from  public  haunt. 

Finds  tongues — in  trees;  books — in  the  running  brooks} 

Sermons — in  stones:  and — good  in  every  thing. 


ON  READING  VERSE 


45 


4.  Heaven  gave  this  Lyre,  and  thus  decreed, 

Be  thou  a bruised — but  not  a broken — reed. 

Questions. — When  is  a syllable  said  to  be  accented?  Give  exam- 
ples. How  is  the  accent,  when  marked,  denoted?  By  what  authority 
is  the  accent  determined?  To  whom  does  it  belong  to  record  usage  in 
this  respect?  In  what  cases  can  we  perceive  the  reason  for  the  ac- 
cent? Give  examples  of  the  first  case.  Of  the  second.  Explain  the 
secondary  accent.  Give  examples. 

What  is  EMPHASIS?  What  is  its  object?  How  is  this  object  most 
frequently  accomplished?  In  what  other  way  is  it  also  effected? 
How  is  emphasis  denoted?  What  is  absolute  emphasis?  Give  exam- 
ples. relative  emphasis?  Give  examples. 

How  is  accent  affected  by  emphasis?  Give  examples.  How  are  in- 
flections affected  by  it?  Give  an  example  in  which  the  inflection  is 
changed  from  the  rising  to  the  falling,  by  the  force  of  emphasis.  Give 
one,  in  which  it  is  changed  from  the  falling  to  the  rising.  What  is 
an  emphatic  phrase?  Give  an  example.  What  is  meant  by  the  em- 
phatic pause?  Give  an  example. 


IV.  INSTRUCTIONS  FOR  READING  VERSE. 

INFLECTIONS. 

In  reading  verse^  the  inflections  should  be  nearly  tlie 
same  as  in  reading  prose;  the  chief  difference  is,  that  in 
poetry,  the  monotone  and  rising  inflection  are  more  fic'- 
quently  used  than  in  prose.  Tlie  greatest  difficulty  in 
reading  or  declaiming  this  species  of  composition,  consists 
in  giving  it  that  measured  flow  which  distinguishes  it 
from  prose,  without  falling  into  a chanting  pronunciation. 

If,  at  any  time,  the  reader  is  in  doubt  as  to  the  proper  in- 
flection, let  him  reduce  the  passage  to  earnest  conversation, 
and  pronounce  it  in  the  most  familiar  and  prosaic  manner, 
and  thus  he  will  generally  use  the  proper  inflection. 

EXERCISES  IN  INFLECTIONS. 

1.  Meanwhile  the  south  wind  rose,  and  with  black  wings 
Wide  hovering^,  all  the  clouds  together  drove 
From  under  heaven'll  the  hills  to  their  supply^, 

Vapor  and  exhalation  dusk  and  moist 
Sent  up  amain':  and  now,  the  thickened  sky 
4 


46 


ON  READING  VERSE. 


Like  a dark  ceiling  stood^ : down  rushed  the  ruin 
Impetuous^,  and  continued  till  the  earth 
No  more  was  seen^:  the  floating  vessel  swam 
Uplifted^,  and  secure  with  beaked  prow^, 

Rode  tilting  o’er  the  waves\ 

2.  My  friend^,  adown  life’s  valley^,  hand  in  hand^, 

With  grateful  change  of  grave  and  merry  speech 
Or  song^,  our  hearts  unlocking  each  to  each^, 

We’ll  journey  onward  to  the  silent  land''; 

And  when  stern  death  shall  loose  that  loving  band, 

Taking  in  his  cold  hand,  a hand  of  ours^, 

The  one  shall  strew  the  other’s  grave  with  flowers', 

Nor  shall  his  heart  a moment  be  unmanned'. 

My  friend  and  brother' ! if  thou  goest  first', 

Wilt  thou  no  more  revisit  me  below'? 

Yea,  when  my  heart  seems  happy  causelessly', 

And  swells',  not  dreaming  why',  my  soul  shall  know 
That  thou',  unseen',  art  bending  over  me'. 

3.  Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth', 

A youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame,  unknown' ; 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth'. 

And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own'. 

4.  Large  was  his  bounty',  and  his  soul  sincere'. 

Heaven  did  a recompense  as  largely  send'; 

He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  had)  a tear\ 

He  gained  from  heaven'  (’t  was  all  he  wished')  a friend'. 

5.  No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose',  ' 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dre-ad  abode'; 

(There  they  alike'  in  trembling  hope  repose',) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father,  and  his  God'. 


ACCENT  AND  EMPHASIS. 

In  reading  verse,  every  syllable  must  have  the  same 
accent,  and  every  word  the  same  emphasis  as  in  prose; 
and  whenever  the  melody  or  music  of  the  verse  would 
lead  to  an  incorrect  accent  or  emphasis,  this  must  be  dis- 
regarded. 

If  a poet  has  made  his  verse  deficient  in  melody,  this  must 
not  be  remedied  by  the  reader,  at  the  expense  of  sense  or  the 
established  rules  of  accent  and  quantity.  Take  the  following 


ON  READING  VERSE. 


47 


EXAMPLE. 

O’er  shields,  and  helms,  and  helmed  heads  he  rode, 

Of  thrones,  and  mighty  Seraphim  pros^ra^d 

According  to  the  metrical  accent,  the  last  word  must  be 
pronounced  “pros^m^e'.”  But  according  to  the  authorized 
pronunciation  it  is  ^‘^ros'trate.”  Which  shall  yield,  the  poet, 
or  established  usage  ? Certainly  not  the  latter. 

Some  writers  advise  a compromise  of  the  matter,  and  that 
the  word  should  be  pronounced  without  accenting  either  syl- 
lable. Sometimes  this  may  be  done,  but  where  it  is  not  prac- 
ticable, the  prot^aic  reading  should  be  preserved. 

In  the  following  examples,  the  words  and  syllables  which 
are  improperly  accented  or  emphasized  in  the  poetry,  are 
marked  in  italics.  According  to  the  principle  stated  above, 
the  reader  should  avoid  giving  them  that  pronunciation  which 
the  correct  reading  of  the  poetry  would  require,  but  should 
read  them  as  prose,  except  where  he  can  throw  off  all  accent, 
and  thus  compromise  the  conflict  between  the  poetic  reading 
and  the  correct  reading.  That  is,  he  must  read  the  poetry 
wrong^  in  order  to  read  the  language  right, 

EXAMPLES.  ^ 

L Ask  of  thy  mother  earth  why  oaks  are  made 
Taher  and  stronger  than  the  weeds  they  shade. 

2.  Their  praise  is  still,  “the  style  is  excel/en^,’’ 

The  sense  they  humbly  take  upon  content. 

3.  False  Qloquence^  like  the  prismatic  glass. 

Its  fairy  colors  spreads  oti  every  place. 

4.  To  do  aught  good,  never  will  be  our  task, 

But  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight. 

5.  Of  all  the  causes  which  combine  to  blind 
Man’s  erring  judgment,  and  mislead  the  mind, 

What  the  weak  head  with  strongest  bias  rules, 

Is  pride,  the  never-failing  vice  of  fools. 

6.  Eye  nature’s  walks,  shoot  folly  as  it  flies. 

And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise. 

7.  To  whom  then,  first  incensed,  Adam  replied, 

“Is  this  thy  love,  is  this  the  recompense 

Of  mine  to  thee,  ungrateful  Eve?” 


48 


ON  READING  VERSE. 


8.  We  may,  with  more  successful  hope,  resolve 
To  wage,  by  force  or  guile,  successful  war, 

Irreconcilable  to  our  grand  foe, 

Who  now  iviumphs^  and  in  excess  of  joy 
Sole  reigning,  holds  the  tyranny  of  Heaven. 

9.  Which,  when  Beelzebub  perceived,  (than  whom, 

Satan  except,  none  higher  sat,)  with  grave 
K^pect^  he  rose,  and  in  his  rising  seemed 

A pillar  of  state. 

10.  Thee,  Sion,  and  the  flowery  brooks  beneath. 

That  wash  thy  hallowed  feet,  and  warbling  flow. 

Nightly  I visit:  nor  sometimes  forget 
Those  other  two,  cqwaM  with  me  in  fate. 

Note. — The  principle  which  has  been  stated  and  exemplified  in  the 
preceding  examples,  admits  of  a few  exceptions;  but  as  they  can  not 
be  classified  in  such  a way  as  to  furnish  a safe  guide  to  any  but  prac- 
ticed readers,  the  rule  has  been  laid  down  as  one  without  exception. 
Those  who  are  desirous  of  pursuing  the  examination  of  the  subject 
further,  and  to  see  the  exceptions  reduced  to  the  form  of  rules,  may 
consult  Walker’s  Rhetorical  Grammar,  pp.  164-7. 


OF  POETIC  PAUSES. 

*• 

In  order  to  make  the  measure  of  poetry  perceptible 
to  the  ear,  there  should  generally  be  a slight  pause  at 
the  end  of  each  line,  c ^cii  where  the  sense  does  not 
require  it. 

There  is,  also,  in  almost  every  line  of  poetry,  a pause 
at  or  near  its  middle,  which  is  called  the  cesura. 

This  should,  however,  never  be  so  placed  as  to  injure  the 
sense  of  the  passage.  It  is  indeed  reckoned  a great  beauty, 
where  it  naturally  coincides  with  the  pause  required  by  the 
sense.  The  cesura,  though  generally  placed  near  the  middle, 
may  be  placed  at  other  intervals. 

There  are  sometimes  also  two  additional  pauses  in  each 
line,  called  demi-cesuras. 

The  cesura  is  marked  (||),  and  the  demi-cesura  thus, 
(I),  in  the  examples  given. 

There  is  also  to  be  observed  a marked  accent  upon  the  long 


ON  READING  VERSE. 


49 


syllable  next  preceding  tbe  cesura,  and  a slighter  one  upon 
that  next  before  each  of  the  demi-cesuras.  These  pauses  and 
accents  constitute  chiefly  the  melody  of  poetry.  When  made 
too  prominent,  however,  they  lead  to  a sing-song  style,  which 
should  be  carefully  avoided. 

In  the  following  examples  the  cesura  is  marked  in  eacL 
line,  the  demi-cesura  in  a few  cases  only. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Nature  | to  all  things  ||  fixed  | the  limits  fit, 

And  wisely  | curbed  ||  proud  man’s  | pretending  wit. 

2.  So  when  an  angel  ||  by  divine  command, 

With  rising  tempests  ||  shakes  a guilty  land. 

3.  Then  from  his  closing  eyes  ||  thy  form  shall  part, 

And  the  last  pang  ||  shall  tear  thee  from  his  heart. 

4.  Know*  then  thyself;  |]  presume  not  God  to  scan; 

The  proper  study  ||  of  mankind  is  man. 

5.  There  is  a land  ||  of  every  land  the  pride, 

Beloved  by  Heaven  ||  o’er  all  the  world  beside. 

Where  brighter  suns  ||  dispense  serener  light. 

And  milder  moons  1|  imparadise  the  night; 

Oh,  thou  shalt  find,  ||  howe’er  thy  footsteps  roam. 

That  land — thy  country  ||  and  that  spot — thy  home. 

6.  In  slumbers  | of  midnight  ||  the  sailor  | boy  lay; 

His  hammock  | swung  loose  ||  at  the  sport  of  the  wind; 
But  watch-worn  | and  weary  ||  his  cares  | flew  away. 

And  visions  | of  happiness  ||  danced  | o’er  his  mind. 

7.  You  may  as  well  ||  go  stand  upon  the  beach, 

And  bid  the  main-flood  ||  bate  his  usual  height; 

You  may  as  well  ||  use  questions  with  the  wolf, 

Why  he  hath  made  ||  the  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb; 

You  may  as  well  ||  forbid  the  mountain  pines 

To  wag  their  high  tops,  ||  and  to  make  no  noise. 

When  they  are  fretted  ||  with  the  gusts  of  heaven; 

You  may  as  well  ||  do  any  thing  that ’s  hard, 

As  seek  to  soften  ||  that,  (than  which,  what’s  harder?) 

His  Jewish  heart. 


8.  She  said, I and  struck;  ||  deep  entered  | in  her  side 
The  piercing  steel,  ||  with  reeking  purple  dyed : 


50 


ON  READING  VERSE. 


Clogged  I in  the  wound  ||  the  cruel  | weapon  stands, 
The  spouting  blood  ||  came  streaming  o’er  her  hands. 
Her  sad  attendants  ||  saw  the  deadly  stroke, 

And  with  loud  cries  1|  the  sounding  palace  shpok. 


SIMILE. 

A Simile,  in  poetry,  should  be  read  in  a lower  tone 
of  voice  than  other  parts  of  the  passage. 

EXAMPLES. 

(The  Similes  are  put  in  Italics.) 

1.  Part  curb  their  fiery  steeds,  or  shun  the  goal 
With  rapid  wheels,  or  fronted  brigades  form. 

As  when^  to  tvarn  proud  cities^  war  appears^ 

Waged  in  the  troubled  slcy^  and  armies  rush 
To  battle  in  the  clouds. 

Others  with  vast  Typhoean  rage  more  fell, 

Rend  up  both  rocks  and  hills,  and  ride  the  air 
In  whirlwind.  Hell  scarce  holds  the  wild  uproar. 

As  luheyi  Alcides  felt  the  envenomed  robe^  and  tore.) 

Through  pain^  up  by  the  roots.,  Thessalian  pines ^ 

And  Lichas  from  the  top  of  (Eta  threw 
Into  the  Euboic  sea. 


2.  Each  at  the  head, 

Leveled  his  deadly  aim ; their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend ; and  such  a frown 
Each  cast  at  th’  other,  as  when  two  black  clouds^ 

With  heaven  s artillery  fraught^  come  rolling  on 
Over  the  Caspian^  there  stand  front  to  front) 

Hovering  a space^  till  winds  the  signal  blow 

To  join  the  dark  encounter^  in  mid-air  z 
So  frowned  the  mighty  combatants. 

3.  Then  pleased  and  thankful,  from  the  porch  they  go, 
And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  woe: 

His  cup  was  vanished ; for,  in  secret  guise. 

The  younger  guest  purloined  the  glittering  prize. 

As  one  who  spies  a serpent  in  his  way^ 

Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray^ 

Disordered)  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near) 

Then  walks  with  faintness  on.  and  looks  with  fear y — 


ON  THE  VOICE. 


61 


So  seemed  the  sire,  when,  far  upon  the  road, 

The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  showed. 

Questions. — Wliat  is  the  difference  between  the  inflection  proper 
in  prose  and  in  verse?  What  is  the  principal  difficulty  in  reading 
poetry  correctly?  How  may  this  difiiculty  be  overcome?  If  there 
should  be  doubt  as  to  the  proper  inflection,  how  may  the  inflection 
be  determined?  If  the  poetical  accent  or  emphasis  conflicts  with  the 
common  and  authorized  pronunciation,  which  should  yield?  How 
may  the  difficulty  sometimes  be  compromised?  Illustrate  this  by 
examples.  What  pauses  are  peculiar  to  poetry?  What  caution 
should  be  observed  with  regard  to  the  cesura?  How  should  a simile 
be  read  in  poetry? 


V.  THE  VOICE. 

STRBNGl’EI  AND  COMPASS. 


The  first  object  of  every  speaker’s  attention,  is  to  have  a 
smooth,  even,  full  tone  of  voice.  If  nature  has  not  given 
him  such  a voice,  he  must  endeavor,  as  much  as  possible,  to 
acquire  it;  nor  ought  he  to  despair;  for  such  is  the  force  of 
exercise  upon  the  organs  of  speech,  that  constant  practice 
will  strengthen  the  voice  in  any  key  to  which  we  accustom 
it.  That  key,  therefore,  which  is  most  natural,  and  which 
we  have  the  greatest  occasion  to  use,  should  be  the  key  we 
ought  the  most  diligently  to  improve. 

Every  one  has  a certain  pitch  of  voice  in  which  he  can 
speak  most  easily  to  himself  and  most  agreeably  to  others;  this 
may  be  called  the  natural  pitch ; this  is  the  pitch  in  which 
we  converse;  and  this  must  be  the  basis  of  every  improve- 
ment we  acquire  from  art  and  exercise.  In  order,  therefore, 
strengthen  this  middle  tone,  we  ought  to  read  and  speak 
in  it,  as  loud  as  possible,  without  suffering  the  voice  to  rise 
into  a higher  key.  This,  however,  is  no  easy  operation.  It 
is  not  very  difficult  to  be  loud  in  a high  tone,  but  to  be  loud 
and  forcible  without  raising  the  voice  into  a higher  key, 
requires  great  practice  and  management. 

The  best  method  of  acquiring  this  power  of  voice,  is  to 
practice  reading  and  speaking  some  strong,  animated  pas- 
sages, in  a small  room,  and  to  persons  placed  at  as  small  a 


52 


ON  THE  VOICE. 


distance  as  possible ; for,  as  we  naturally  raise  our  voice  to  a 
higher  key,  when  we  speak  to  people  at  a great  distance,  so 
we  naturally  lower  our  key,  as  those,  to  whom  we  speak, 
come  nearer.  When,  therefore,  we  have  no  idea  of  being 
heard  at  a distance,  the  voice  will  not  be  so  apt  to  rise  into  a 
higher  key,  when  we  wish  to  be  forcible ; and,  consequently, 
exerting  as  much  force  as  we  are  able,  in  a small  room,  and  to 
people  near  us,  will  tend  to  swell  and  strengthen  the  voice^ 
in  the  middle  tone. — Rhetorical  Grammar^  p.  245. 


LOW  TONES  OF  VOICE 

May  be  acquired  and  strengthened  by  practice  on  such  pieces 
as  naturally  require  a pitch  a little  below  the  natural  or  con- 
versational tone ; such,  for  example,  as  contain  the  expression 
of  hatred,  scorn,  or  reproach,  as  well  as  those  of  a very  grave 
and  solemn  character.  When  the  student  can  pronounce 
such  pieces  with  ease  and  force,  let  him  practice  them  on  a 
little  lower  note,  and  so  on,  until  the  voice  has  been  ouffi- 
ciently  cultivated  in  that  direction. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  0,  proper  stuff! 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fears ; 

This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger  which  you  ^id 
Led  you  to  Duncan.  0,  these  pains  and  starts 
(Impostors  to  true  fear)  would  Avell  become 
A woman’s  storjg  at  a Avinter’s  fire, 

Authorized  by  her  grandam.  Shame  itself! 

Why  do  you  make  such  faces?  When  all’s  done, 

You  look  but  on  a stool ! 

2.  Thou  slave  ! thou  wretch  ! thou  coward  I 
Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villainy  I 

Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side ! ^ 

Thou  fortune’s  champion,  thou  dost  never  fight 
But  when  her  humorous  ladyship  is  by 
To  teach  thee  safety  ! Thou  art  perjured  too, 

And  sooth’ st  up  greatness.  What  a fool  art  thou, 

A ramping  fool;  to  brag,  and  stamp,  and  SAveat, 

Upon  my  party  I thou  cold-blooded  slave. 

3.  Poison  be  their  drink, 

Gall,  worse  than  gall,  the  daintiest  meat  they  taste-. 


ON  THE  VOICE. 


53 


Their  sweetest  shade  a grove  of  cypress  trees! 
Their  sweetest  prospects,  murdering  basilisks ! 

Their  softest  touch  as  smart  as  lizard’s  stings! 
Their  music,  frightful  as  the  serpent’s  hiss; 

And  boding  screech-owls  make  the  concert  full. 

4.  God!  thou  art  mighty!  At  thy  footstool  bound, 
Lie,  gazing  to  thee,  Chance,  and  Life,  and  Death; 
Nor  in  the  angel  circle  flaming  round. 

Nor  in  the  million  worlds  that  blaze  beneath. 

Is  one  that  can  withstand  thy  wrath’s  hot  breath. 
Woe,  in  thy  frown:  in  thy  smile,  victory: 

Hear  my  last  prayer!  I ask  no  mortal  wreath; 

Let  but  these  eyes  my  rescued  country  see. 

Then  take  my  spirit,  all  omnipotent,  to  thee. 

5.  What  eye 

Has  not  been  dazzled  by  thy  majesty? 

Where  is  the  ear  that  has  not  heard  thee  speak? 
Thou  breathest!  forest-oaks  of  centuries 
Turn  their  uprooted  trunks  toward  the  skies! 

Thou  thunderest!  adamantine  mountains  break. 
Tremble,  and  totter,  and  apart  are  riven! 

Thou  lightenest!  and  the  rocks  inflame;  thy  power 
Of  fire,  to  their  metallic  bosom  driven. 

Melts  and  devours  them;  lo!  they  are  no  more; 
They  pass  away  like  wax  in  the  fierce  flame, 

Or  the  thick  mists  that  frown  upon  the  sun. 

Which  he  but  glances  at,  and  they  are  gone. 


HIGH  TONES  OF  VOICE 

May  be  acquired  by  a process  similar  to  that  just  described. 
Select  such  passages  as  require  a high  key,  and  read  them 
with  the  utmost  possible  force.  Then  pitch  the  voice  a little 
higher,  at  each  successive  reading,  and  so  on  until  the  end  is 
accomplished.  Speaking  in  the  open  air,  at  the  very  top  of 
the  voice,  is  an  exercise  admirably  adapted  to  strengthen  the 
voice  and  give  it  compass,  and  should  be  frequently  practiced. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  What  was  the  part  of  a faithful  citizen  ? of  a prudent,  active, 
and  honest  minister?  Was  he  not  to  secure  Euboea,  as  our  de- 
fense against  all  attacks  by  sea?  Was  he  not  to  make  Boeotia  our 

5 


54 


ON  THE  VOICE. 


barrier  ca  the  midland  side?  the  cities  bordering  on  Peloponnesus 
our  bulwark  in  that  quarter?  Was  he  not  to  attend  with  due 
precaution,  to  the  importation  of  corn,  that  this  trade  might  be 
protected  through  all  its  progress,  up  to  our  own  harbor?  Was  he 
not  to  cover  those  districts  which  we  commanded,  by  seasonable 
detachments  at  Tenedos?  to  exert  himself  in  the  assembly  for  this 
purpose  ? while  with  equal  zeal  he  labored  to  gain  others  to  our 
interest?  Was  lie  not  to  cut  off  the  best  and  most  important  re- 
sources of  our  enemies,  and  to  supply  those  in  which  our  country 
was  defective?  And  all  this  you  gained  by  my  counsels,  and  my 
administration. 

2.  Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come, 

Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius; 

For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world; 

Hated  by  one  he  loves;  braved  by  his  brother; 

Checked  like  a bondman;  all  his  faults  observed, 

Set  in  a note-book,  learned  and  conned  by  rote, 

To  cast  into  his  teeth. 

3.  0 ye  judges!  it  was  not  by  human  counsel,  nor  by  any  thing 
less  than  the  immediate  care  of  the  immortal  gods,  that  this  event 
has  taken  place.  The  very  divinities  themselves  who  beheld  that 
monster  fall,  seemed  to  be  moved  and  to  have  inflicted  their  ven 
geance  upon  him.  I appeal  to,  I call  to  witness  you,  Oye  hills  and 
groves  of  Alba!  you,  the  demolished  Alban  altars!  ever  accounted 
holy  by  the  Romans,  and  coeval  with  our  religion,  but  which  CIo- 
dius,  in  his  mad  fury,  having  first  cut  down  and  leveled  the  most 
sacred  groves,  had  sunk  under  heaps  of  common  buildings,  1 appeal 
to  you;  I call  you  to  witness,  whether  your  altars,  your  divinities, 
your  powers,  which  he  had  polluted  with  all  kinds  of  wickedness, 
did  not  avenge  themselves  when  this  wretch  was  extirpated.  And 
thou,  0 holy  Jupiter!  from  the  height  of  thy  sacred  mount,  whose 
lakes,  groves,  and  boundaries,  he  had  so  often  contaminated  with 
his  detestable  impurities;  and  you,  the  other  deities,  whom  he  had 
insulted,  at  length  opened  your  eyes,  to  punish  this  enormous  of- 
fender. By  you,  by  you,  and  in  your  sight,  was  the  slow,  but  the 
righteous  and  merited  vengeance  executed  upon  him. 


FULLNESS  AND  ROTUNDITY  OF  VOICE. 

By  this  is  meant  that  quality  of  voice,  to  which  the  Ro. 
mans  gave  the  name  of  “ore  rotundo,”  because  the  sounds 
are  formed  with  a “round,  open  mouth.”  It  is  exemplified 
in  tho  hailing  of  a ship,  “ship  aho y;”  in  the  reply  of 


ON  THE  VOICE. 


55 


the  sailor,  when,  in  the  roar  of  the  storm,  he  answers  his 

captain,  “ay e,  ay e;”  and  in  the  command  of  the 

officer  to  his  troops,  when,  amid  the  thunder  of  artillery,  he 
gives  the  order,  “ma rch,”  or  “ha It.” 

This  fullness  or  roundness  of  tone  is  secured,  by  dwelling 
on  the  vowel  sounds  and  indefinitely  protracting  it.  The 
mouth  should  be  opened  wide,  the  tongue  kept  down,  and  the 
aperture  left  as  round,  and  as  free  for  the  voice  as  possible. 

It  is  this  artificial  rotundity,  which,  in  connection  with  a 
distinct  articulation,  enables  the  field  orator,  or  one  who 
speaks  in  a very  large  apartment,  to  send  his  voice  to  the  most 
distant  point.  It  is  a certain  degree  of  this  quality,  which 
distinguishes  declamatory,  or  public  speaking  or  reading,  from 
private  conversation,  and  no  one  can  accomplish  much,  as  a 
public  speaker,  without  cultivating  it.  It  must  be  carefully 
distinguished  from  the  “high  tone,”  which  is  an  elevation  of 
pitch,  and  from  “loudness,”  or  “strength”  of  voice,  both 
which  qualities  have  been  treated  of,  in  the  preceding  article. 

EXAMPLES. 

[Let  the  pupil  practice  upon  examples  like  the  following,  dwelling 
upon  the  sounds  of  the  italicized  vowels.] 

(^Loud  and  Fidl.') 

1.  O n’ghteous  Heaven;  ere  Fr(?<?dom  found  a grave. 

Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save? 

Whore  was  tlu'ne  arm,  O vengeance!  whore  thy  rod, 

That  smote  the  foes  of  Zzon  and  of  God? 

2.  He  said,  he  would  not  ransom  Mortimer; 

Forbade  my  tongue  to  speak  of  Mortimer: 

But  1 will  find  him  when  he  lies  asleep, 

And  in  his  ear  I’ll  halloo-— Mortimer! 

1 ’ll  have  a starling  shall  be  taught  to  speak 
Nothing  but  Mortimer,  and  give  it  him. 

3.  Woe!  woe!  woe  to  the  inhabitants  of  Jerusalem! 

(^Low,  Soft,  and  Full?) 

4.  0,  swoar  not  by  the  moon,  the  inconstant  moon, 

That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb, 

Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 

5.  O sailor-boy,  woe  to  thy  dream  of  deh'ght! 


ON  THE  VOICE. 


5G 


6.  O sailor-boy  ! sailor-boy  ! never  again 

Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred,  thy  wishes  repay; 
JZnblessed  and  wnhonored,  do^on  deep  in  the  main, 
Full  many  a score  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  decay. 


MANAGEMENT  OF  THE  VOICE. 

On  this  subject  we  can  do  nothing  better  than  lay  before 
the  student  an  extract  from  Mr.  Walker’s  excellent  “Rhe- 
torical Grammar.” 

“As  the  voice  naturally  slides  into  a higher  tone,  when  we 
want  to*speak  louder,  but  not  so  easily  into  a lower  tone,  when 
we  want  to  speak  more  softly,  the  first  care  of  every  reader 
and  speaker  ought  to  be,  to  acquire  the  power  of  lowering  the 
voice  when  it  is  too  high.  Experience  shows  us  that  we 
can  raise  our  voice  at  pleasure,  to  any  pitch  it  is  capable  of; 
but  the  same  experience  tells  us,  that  it  requires  infinite  art 
and  practice  to  bring  the  voice  to  a lower  key,  when  it  is  once 
raised  too  high.  It  ought,  therefore,  to  be  a^  first  principle 
with  all  public  readers  and  speakers,  rather  to  begin  under  the 
common  level  of  the  voice,  than  above  it. 

“ Every  one,  therefore,  who  would  acquire  a variety  of  tone, 
in  public  reading  or  speaking,  must  avoid,  as  the  greatest  evil, 
a loud  and  vociferous  beginning;  and,  for  this  purpose,  it 
would  be  prudent  in  a reader  or  speaker,  to  adapt  his  voice 
as  if  only  to  be  heard  by  the  person  nearest  to  him.  If  his 
voice  has  natural  strength,  and  the  subject  any  thing  impas- 
sioned in  it,  a higher  and  louder  tone  will  insensibly  steal  on 
him,  and  his  greatest  address  must  be  directed  to  keep  it  with- 
in bounds.  For  this  purpose,  it  will  be  frequently  necessary 
for  him  to  recall  his  voice,  as  it  were,  from  the  extremities  of 
his  auditory,  and  direct  it  to  those  who  are  nearest  to  him. 

“If,  in  the  course  of  reading,  the  voice  should  slide  into 
a higher  tone,  and  this  tone  too  often  recur,  care  must  be 
taken  to  throw  in  a variety,  by  beginning  subsequent  sentences 
in  a lower  tone,  and  (if  the  subject  will  admit  of  it)  in  a 
monotone;  for  the  monotone  is  the  most  efficacious  means  of 
bringing  the  voice  from  high  to  low,  and  of  altering  it  when 
it  has  been  too  long  in  the  same  key  ” 

With  regard  to  those  changes  of  tone  which  are  required  by 


GESTURE. 


57 


the  character  of  the  sentiment  uttered,  such  as  a sudden  tran- 
sition from  high  to  low,  or  the  contrary,  plaintiveness  or  ex- 
pressiveness of  voice,  a slow  or  quick  delivery,  and  other 
things  of  a like  nature,  rules  seem  to  be  unnecessary,  and 
even  to  impede  improvement. 

Questions. — What,  with  regard  to  the  voice,  is  an  important  object 
of  every  speaker’s  attention?  Wiiat  key  ought  he  most  diligently  to 
improve?  What  is  meant  by  the  natural  pitch?  How  may  this  be 
cultivated?  AVhat  difficulty  is  there  in  doing  this?  What  is  the  best 
method  of  obviating  this  difficulty?  How  may  the  lower  tones  of  the 
voice  be  strengthened?  How  may  high  tones  of  voice  be  acquired? 
Is  it  easier  to  raise  the  voice,  or  to  lower  it?  In  what  tone  ought  a 
speaker  to  commence?  AVhat  is  especially  to  be  avoided  in  the  begin- 
ning? In  what  way  may  the  voice,  if  too  high,  be  brought  down? 


VI.  GESTURE. 

It  is  not  designed,  in  this  book,  to  give  a minute  system  of 
rules  and  instructions  on  the  subject  of  Gesture.  That  would 
be  a difficult  task  without  the  assistance  of  plates;  and  even 
with  their  aid,  any  directions  must  be  very  imperfect,  without 
the  example  and  illustrations  of  the  living  teacher,  as  the 
speaking  model.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  give  some  general 
hints  by  means  of  which  the  student  may  form  rules,  or  pur- 
sue a discipline  for  himself. 

Gesture  is  that  part  of  the  speaker’s  manner  which  per- 
tains to  his  attitude,  to  the  use  and  carriage  of  his  person, 
and  the  movement  of  his  limbs  in  delivery. 

Every  person,  in  beginning  to  speak,  feels  the  natural  em- 
barrassment resulting  from  his  new  position.  The  novelty  of 
the  situation  destroys  his  self-possession,  and,  with  the  loss  of 
that,  he  becomes  awkward,  his  arms  and  hands  hang  clumsily, 
and  now,  for  the  first  time,  seem  to  him  worse  than  superflu- 
ous members.  This  embarrassment  will  be  overcome  gradu- 
ally, as  the  speaker  becomes  familiar  with  his  position ; and 
it  is  sometimes  overcome  at  once,  by  a powerful  exercise  of 
the  attention  upon  the  matter  of  the  speech.  When  that 
fills  and  possesses  the  mind,  the  orator  insensibly  takes  the 
attitude  which  is  becoming,  and,  at  least,  easy  and  natural, 
if  not  graceful. 


58 


GESTURE. 


Ist.  The  first  general  direction  that  should  be  given  to  the 
speaker  is,  that  he  should  stand  erect  and  firm,  and  in  that 
posture  which  gives  an  expanded  chest  and  full  play  to  the 
organs  of  respiration  and  utterance. 

2d.  Let  the  attitude  be  such  that  it  can  be  shifted  with  ease, 
>and  without  shuffling  and  hitching  the  limbs.  The  student 
will  find,  by  trial,  that  no  attitude  is  so  favorable  to  this  end, 
as  that  in  which  the  weight  of  the  body  is  thrown  upon  one 
leg,  leaving  the  other  free  to  be  advanced  or  thrown  back,  as 
fatigue  or  the  proper  action  of  delivery  may  require. 

The  student,  who  has  any  regard  to  grace  or  elegance,  will 
of  course  avoid  all  the  gross  faults  which  are  so  common 
among  public  speakers,  such  as  resting  one  foot  upon  a stool 
or  bench,  or  throwing  the  body  lazily  forward  upon  the  sup- 
port of  the  rostrum. 

3d.  Next  to  attitude,  come  the  movements  of  the  person 
and  limbs.  In  these,  two  objects  are  to  be  observed,  and,  if 
possible,  combined,  viz.,  proprktij  and  grace.  There  is  ex- 
pression in  the  extended  arm,  the  clinched  hand,  the  open 
palm,  and  the  smiting  of  the  breast.  But  let  no  gesture  be 
7nade  that  is  not  in  harmony  with  the  thought  or  sentiment 
that  is  uttered;  for  it  is  this  harmony  which  constitutes  pro- 
priety. As  far  as  possible,  let  there  be  a correspondence  be- 
tween the  style  of  action  and  the  train  of  thought.  Where 
the  thought  flows  on  calmly  and  sweetly,  let  there  be  the 
/^ame  graceful  and  easy  flow  of  gesture  and  action.  Where 
the  style  is  sharp  and  abrupt,  there  is  propriety  in  the  quick, 
*bort,  and  abrupt  gesticulation.  Especially  avoid  that  uu- 
craceful  sawing  of  the  air  with  the  arms,  into  which  an  ill* 
vegulated  fervor  betrays  many  young  speakers. 

What  is  called  a graceful  manner.^  can  only  bo  attained  by 
diose  who  have  some  natural  advantages  of  person.  So  far 
«s  it  is  in  the  reach  of  study  or  practice,  it  seems  to  depend 
chiefly  upon  the  general  cultivation  of  manners,  implying 
freedom  from  all  embarrassments,  and  entire  self-possession. 
The  whole  secret  of  acquiring  a graceful  style  of  gesture, 
we  apprehend,  lies  in  the  habitual  practice,  not  only  when 
speaking,  but  at  all  times,  of  free  and  graceful  movements 
of  the  limbs. 


GESTURE. 


59 


There  is  no  limb  nor  feature,  which  the  accomplished 
speaker  will  not  employ  with  elfect,  in  the  course  of  a vari- 
ous and  animated  delivery.  But  the  arms  are  the  chief  re- 
liance of  the  orator  in  gesture;  and  it  will  not.  be  amiss  to 
give  a hint  or  two  in  reference  to  their  proper  use. 

And  first; — It  is  not  an  uncommon  fault  to  use  one  arm 
exclusively,  and  to  give  that  a uniform  movement.  Such 
movement  may,  sometimes,  have  grown  habitual  from  one’s 
profession  or  employment.  But  in  learners,  also,  there  is 
often  a predisposition  to  this  fault. 

Secondly; — It  is  not  unusual  to  see  a speaker  use  only 
the  lower  half  of  his  arm.  This  always  gives  a stiff  and 
constrained  manner  to  delivery.  Let  the  whole  arm  move, 
and  let  the  movement  be  free  and  flowing. 

♦ Thirdly ; — As  a general  rule,  let  the  hand  be  open,  with 
the  fingers  slightly  curved.  It  then  seems  liberal,  commu- 
nicative, and  candid ; and,  in  some  degree,  gives  that  expres- 
sion to  the  style  of  delivery.  Of  course,  there  are  passages 
which  require  the  clinched  hand,  the  pointed  finger,  &c. ; 
but  these  are  used  to  give  a particular  expression. 

Fourthly -In  the  movements  of  the  arm,  study  variety 
and  the  grace  of  curved  lines. 

When  a gesture  is  made  with  one  arm  only,  the  eye  should 
be  cast  in  the  direction  of  that  arm ; not  at  it,  but  over  it. 

All  speakers  employ,  more  or  less,  the  motions  of  the  head. 
In  reference  to  that  member,  we  make  but  one  observation. 
Avoid  the  continuous  bobbing  and  shaking  of  the  head, 
which  is  so  conspicuous  in  the  action  of  many  ambitious 
public  speakers. 

The  beauty  and  force  of  all  gesture  consist  in  its  timely, 
judicious,  and  natural  employment,  when  it  can  serve  to 
illustrate  the  meaning,  or  give  emphasis  to  the  force  of  an 
important  passage.  The  usual  fault  of  young  speakers  is 
too  much  action.  To  emphasize  all  parts  alike,  is  equiva- 
lent to  no  emphasis;  and  by  employing  forcible  gestures  on 
unimportant  passages,  we  diminish  our  power  to  render  other 
parts  impressive. 


60 


DIRECTIONS. 


TO  TEACHERS. 

In  Articulation,  as  the  exercises  are  already  exten- 
sive, a few  lessons  only  are  added,  especially  adapted  to 
the  purpose  of  practice. 

The  Inflections  marked  are  in  accordance  with  the  best 
authorities,  both  American  and  English,  among  whom  may  be 
mentioned  Sheridan  Knowles  as  a leading  and  standard 

O 

author  on  this  subject.  At  the  same  time,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, that,  in  many  cases,  inflections  depend  upon  the  degree 
of  emphasis^  and,  on  this  point,  opinions  and  tastes  may  vary 
in  different  individuals,  and  sometimes  in  the  same  individual 
at  different  times.  It  is  also  to  be  noticed,  that  the  rising  in- 
flection  is  often  used  in  a slight  degree  without  being  discerned^ 
except  by  an  acute  and  educated  ear;  pupils  learn  to  distin- 
guish it  with  great  difliculty,  and  teachers  frequently  do  not 
perceive  it,  unless  under  emphasis. 

In  Emphasis  and  Poetry,  the  lessons  for  practice  include 
all  the  previous  notation. 

With  regard  to  the  lessons  on  Modulation,  a single  remark 
seems  necessary.  The  tone  and  manner  in  which  emotion  is 
expressed,  are  instinctive.  A proper  expression  can  be  given, 
only  by  imbibing  the  spirit  of  the  subject.  In  the  notation, 
high  and  low  tones  are  specifically  indicated.  Loudness  is 
sufficiently  denoted  in  most  cases,  by  emphasis. 


The  subjoined  characters  are  used  in  the  following  pages : 


The  rising  inflection  is  denoted  by (^) 

The  FALLING  INFLECTION  “ “ (^) 

The  rising  circumflex  “ “ 

The  falling  circumflex  “ “ (A) 

The  monotone,  by  a line  placed  over  the  vowel  . . . (— ) 

Emphatic  words  are  denoted  by  italics  or  capitals. 

The  emphatic  pause,  by  a line  before  or  after  the  word  . I — ) 

The  cesura  is  denoted  by ( ||  ) 

The  demi-cesura  “ “ | ) 

A high  tone  “ . “ ( h) 

A higher  tone  “ “ {hh) 

A low  tone  *'  “ ....  o ......(  O 

A lower  tone  “ (ll) 


NEW  SIXTH  READER 


EXEECISES  IN  ARTICULATION. 

The  first  five  of  the  following  Exercises  are  intended  especially 
for  practice  in  Articulation,  and  are  earnestly  commended  to  the 
Teacher’s  attention. 


EXERCISE  I.— THE  GROTTO  OF  ANTIPAROS. 

From  Goldsmith. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  in  Ireland,  in  1728.  After  his  gradu- 
ation at  the  Dublin  University,  he  went  to  London,  to  seek  support 
by  his  pen ; and  during  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  worked  as  a mere 
compiler  for  the  book-sellers.  His  poems  of  “ The  Traveler'''  and 
“ The  Deserted  Village^'"  established  his  fame.  He  died  in  1774. 

1.  Archipelago;  [pro.  Ark-e-peP-a-go.)  a narrow  sea  bordering  on 
Greece,  and  containing  many  small  islands. 

2.  Levantine ; the  eastern  part  of  the  Mediterranean  sea  is  called 
the  Levant^  and  a Levantine  mariner  is  a seaman  of  that  region. 

1.  Of  all  the  subterraneous  caverns  now  known,  the 
grotto  of  Antiparos  is  the  most  remarkable,  as  well  for  its 
extent  as  for  the  beauty  of  its  sparry  incrustations.  This 
celebrated  cavern  was  first  explored  by  one  Magni,  an  Italian 
traveler,  about  one  hundred  years  ago,  at  Antiparos,  an  incon- 
siderable island  of  the  Archipelago. 

2.  “Having  been  informed,”  says  he,  “by  the  natives  of 
Paros,  that,  in  the  little  island  of  Antiparos,  which  lies  about 
two  miles  from  the  former,  a gigantic  statue  was  to  be  seen  at 
the  mouth  of  a cavern  in  that  place,  it  was  resolved  that  we 
(the  French  consul  and  himself)  should  pay  it  a visit. 

3.  “ In  pursuance  of  this  resolution,  after  we  had  landed 
on  the  island,  and  walked  about  four  miles  through  the  midst 
of  beautiful  plains  and  slop  mg  woodlands,  we  at  length  came 
to  a little  hill,  on  the  side  of  which  yawned  a most  horrid 
cavern,  which,  by  its  gloom,  at  first  struck  us  with  terror,  and 

61 


62 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


almost  repressed  curiosity.  Recovering  from  the  first  surprise, 
however,  we  entered  boldly,  and  had  not  proceeded  above 
twenty  paces,  when  the  supposed  statue  of  the  giant  presented 
itself  to  view. 

4.  “We  quickly  perceived  that  what  the  ignorant  natives 
had  been  terrified  at  as  a giant,  was  nothing  more  than  a 
sparry  concretion,  formed  by  the  water  dropping  from  the 
roof  of  the  cave,  and  by  degrees  hardening  into  a figure, 
which  their  fears  had  formed  into  a monster.  Incited  by  this 
extraordinary  appearance,  we  were  induced  to  proceed  still 
further,  in  quest  of  new  adventures,  in  this  subterranean 
abode. 

5.  “ As  we  proceeded,  new  wonders  offered  themselves ; 
the  spars,  formed  into  trees  and  shrubs,  presented  a kind  of 
petrified  grove ; some  white,  some  green ; and  all  receding  in 
due  perspective.  They  struck  us  with  the  more  amazement, 
as  we  knew  them  to  be  mere  productions  of  Nature,  who, 
hitherto  in  solitude,  had,  in  her  playful  moments,  dressed  the 
scene  as  if  for  her  own  amusement. 

6.  “We  had  as  yet  seen  but  a few  of  the  wonders  of  the 
place;  and  we  were  introduced  only  into  the  portico  of  this 
amazing  temple.  In  one  corner  of  this  half-illuminated 
recess,  there  appeared  an  opening  about  three  feet  wide, 
which  seemed  to  lead  to  a place  totally  dark,  and  which  one 
of  the  natives  assured  us  contained  nothing  more  than  a res- 
ervoir of  water. 

7.  “ Upon  this  information,  we  made  an  experiment,  by 
throwing  down  some  stones,  which  rumbled  along  the  sides 
of  the  descent  for  some  time : the  sound  seemed  at  last 
quashed  in  a bed  of  water.  In  order,  however,  to  be  more 
certain,  we  sent  in  a Levantine  mariner,  who,  by  the  promise  of 
a good  reward,  ventured,  with  a flambeau  in  his  hand,  into  this 
narrow  aperture. 

8.  “ After  continuing  within  it  for  about  a quarter  of  an 
hour,  he  returned,  bearing  in  his  hand  some  beautiful  pieces 
of  white  spar,  which  art  could  neither  equal  nor  imitate. 
Upon  being  informed  by  him  that  the  place  was  full  of  these 
beautiful  incrustations,  I ventured  in  with  him,  about  fifty 
paces,  anxiously  and  cautiously  descending,  by  a steep  and 
dangerous  way. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


63 


9.  “ Finding,  however,  that  we  came  to  a precipice  which 
led  into  a spacious  amphitheater,  (if  I may  so  call  it,)  still 
deeper  than  any  other  part,  we  returned,  and  being  provided 
with  a ladder,  flambeau,  and  other  things  to  expedite  our 
descent,  our  whole  company,  man  by  man,  ventured  into  the 
same  opening;  and,  descending  one  after  another,  we  at  last 
saw  ourselves  all  together  in  the  most  magniflcent  part  of 
‘the  cavern. 

10.  Our  candles  being  now  all  lighted  up,  and  the  whole 
place  completely  illuminated,  never  could  the  eye  be  presented 
with  a more  glittering  or  a more  magniflcent  scene;  the 
whole  roof  hung  with  solid  icicles,  transparent  as  glass,  yet 
solid  as  marble. 

11.  “The  eye  could  scarcely  reach  the  lofty  and  noble 
ceiling ; the  sides  were  regularly  formed  with  spars ; and  the 
whole  presented  the  idea  of  a magniflcent  theater,  illuminated 
with  an  immense  profusion  of  lights.  The  floor  consisted  of 
solid  marble ; and,  in  several  places,  magniflcent  columns, 
thrones,  altars,  and  other  objects,  appeared,  as  if  nature  had 
designed  to  mock  the  curiosities  of  art. 

12.  “ Our  voices,  upon  speaking  or  singing,  were  redoubled, 
to  an  astonishing  loudness;  and  upon  the  flring  of  a gun,  the 
noise  and  reverberations  were  almost  deafening.  In  the 
midst  of  this  grand  amphitheater,  rose  a concretion  about 
flfteen  feet  high,  that,  in  some  measure,  resembled  an  altar; 
from  which,  taking  the  hint,  we  caused  mass  to  be  celebrated 
there.  The  beautiful  columns  that  shot  up  around  the  altar 
appeared  like  candlesticks;  and  many  other  natural  objects 
represented  the  customary  ornaments  of  this  rite. 

13.  “ Below  even  this  spacious  grotto,  there  seemed  another 
cavern;  down  which  I ventured  with  my  former  mariner,  and 
descended  about  fifty  paces,  by  means  of  a rope.  I at  last 
arrived  at  a small  spot  of  level  ground,  where  the  bottom 
appeared  different  from  that  of  the  amphitheater,  being  com- 
posed of  soft  clay,  yielding  to  the  pressure,  and  in  which  I 
thrust  a stick  to  the  depth  of  six  feet. 

14.  “ In  this,  however,  as  above,  numbers  of  the  most 
beautiful  crystals  were  formed;  one  of  which,  particularly, 
resembled  a table.  Upon  our  egress  from. this  amazing  cavern, 
we  perceived  a Greek  inscription  upon  a rock  at  the  mouth, 


64 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


but  so  obliterated  by  time  that  we  could  not  read  it  distinctly. 
It  seems  to  import  that  one  Antipater,  in  the  time  of  Alex- 
ander, had  come  hither;  but  whether  he  penetrated  into  the 
depths  of  the  cavern,  he  does  not  see  fit  to  inform  us.”  This 
account  of  so  beautiful  and  striking  a scene  may  serve  to  give 
us  some  idea  of  the  subterraneous  wonders  of  nature. 


ii._the  thunder-storm. 

From  Thomson. 

James  Thomson  was  born  in  Scotland,  in  1700.  His  fame  rests  chiefly 
on  the  poem  of  The  Seasons^’'  which  will  ever  be  popular  through  its 
vivid  descriptions  of  natural  scenery.  He  died  at  Kew,  in  1748. 

1.  As  from  the  face  of  heaven  the  shattered  clouds 
Tumultuous  rove,  the  interminable  sky 
Sublimer  swells,  and  o’er  the  world  expands 

A purer  azure. 

2.  Through  the  lightened  air 

A higher  luster  and  a clearer  calm, 

Diflfusive.  tremble ; while,  as  if  in  sign 
Of  danger  past,  a glittering  robe  of  joy, 

Set  oft'  abundant  by  the  yellow  ray. 

Invests  the  fields ; and  nature  smiles  revived. 

3.  ’T  is  beauty  all,  and  grateful  song  around, 

Joined  to  the  low  of  kine,  and  numerous  bleat 

Of  flocks  thick-nibbling  through  the  clovered  vale; 

And  shall  the  hymn  be  marred  by  thankless  man, 

Most  favored ; who,  with  voice  articulate. 

Should  lead  the  chorus  of  this  lower  world  ? 

4.  Shall  man,  so  soon  forgetful  of  the  Hand 
That  hushed  the  thunder,  and  serenes  the  sky, 

Extinguished  feel  that  spark  the  tempest  waked. 

That  sense  of  powers,  exceeding  far  his  own. 

Ere  yet  his  feeble  heart  has  lost  its  fears  ? 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


65 


III.— DESCRIPTION  OF  A STORM. 

From  DTsraelt. 

DTsraelt  is  an  English  writer,  who  first  distinguished  himself  as 
an  author,  but  has,  for  several  years,  devoted  himself  to  politics. 
He  has  been  a member  of  the  English  ministry  and  of  Parliament. 

1.  * * ^ They  looked  round  on  every  side,  and  hope 

gave  way  before  the  scene  of  desolation.  Immense  branches 
were  shivered  from  the  largest  trees ; small  ones  were  entirely 
stripped  of  their  leaves;  the  long  grass  was  bowed  to  the 
earth ; the  waters  were  whirled  in  eddies  out  of  the  little 
rivulets ; birds,  leaving  their  nests  to  seek  shelter  in  the 
crevices  of  the  rocks,  unable  to  stem  the  driving  air,  flapped 
their  wings  and  fell  upon  the  earth;  the  frightened  animals 
of  the  plain,  almost  suffocated  by  the  impetuosity  of  the 
wind,  sought  safety,  and  found  destruction ; some  of  the 
largest  trees  were  torn  up  by  the  roots;  the  sluices  of  the 
mountains  were  filled,  and  innumerable  torrents  rushed  down 
the  before  empty  gullies.  The  heavens  now  open,  and 
the  lightning  and  thunder  contend  with  the  horrors  of  the 
wind. 

2.  In  a moment,  all  was  again  hushed.  Dead  silence  suc- 
ceeded the  bellow  of  the  thunder,  the  roar  of  the  wind,  the 
rush  of  the  waters,  the  moaning  of  the  beasts,  the  screaming 
of  the  birds.  Nothing  was  heard  save  the  plash  of  the 
agitated  lake,  as  it  beat  up  against  the  black  rocks  which  girt 
it  in. 

3.  Again,  greater  darkness  enveloped  the  trembling  earth. 
Anon,  the  heavens  were,  rent  with  lightning,  which  nothing 
could  have  quenched  but  the  descending  deluge.  Cataracts 
poured  down  from  the  lowering  firmament.  For  an  instant, 
the  horses  dashed  madly  forward ; beast  and  rider  blinded  and 
stifled  by  the  gushing  rain,  and  gasping  for  breath.  Shelter 
was  nowhere.  The  quivering  beasts  reared,  and  snorted,  and 
sank  upon  their  knees,  dismounting  their  riders. 

4.  He  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  there  burst  forth  a terrific 
noise,  they  knew  not  what;  a rush,  they  could  not  understand ; 
a vibration  which  shook  them  on  their  horses.  Every  terror 
sank  before  the  roar  of  the  cataract.  It  seemed  that  the 


66 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


mighty  mountain,  unable  to  support  its  weight  of  waters, 
shook  to  the  foundation.  A lake  had  burst  upon  its  summit, 
and  the  cataract  became  a falling  ocean.  The  source  of  the 
great  deep  appeared  to  be  discharging  itself  over  the  range  of 
mountains ; the  great  gray  peak  tottered  on  its  foundation  I — 
It  shook ! — it  fell ! and  buried  in  its  ruins,  the  castle,  the  vih 
bge,  and  the  bridge ! 


IV.— HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT-WIND. 

1.  Unbridled  Spirit,  throned  upon  the  lap 
Of  ebon  Midnight,  whither  dost  thou  stray  ? 

Whence  didst  thou  come,  and  where  is  thy  abode? 
From  slumber  1 aAvaken  at  the  sound 

Of  thy  most  melancholy  voice ; sublime, 

Thou  ridest  on  the  rolling  clouds,  which  take 
The  form  of  sphinx,  or  hippogriff,  or  car. 

Like  those  of  Roman  conquerors  of  yore 
In  Nemean  pastimes  used,  by  fiery  steeds 
Drawn  headlong  on ; or  choosest,  all  unseen, 

To  ride  the  vault,  and  drive  the  murky  storms 
Before  thee,  or  bow  down,  with  giant  wing, 

The  wondering  forests  as  thou  sweepest  by ! 

2.  Daughter  of  Darkness  ! when  remote  the  noise 
Of  tumult,  and  of  discord,  and  mankind  ; 

When  but  the  watch-dog’s  voice  is  heard,  or  wolves 
That  bay  the  silent  night,  or  from  the  tower. 

Ruined  and  rent,  the  note  of  boding  c vl. 

Or  lapwing’s  shrill  and  solitary  cry; 

AV^hen  sleep  weighs  down  the  eyelids  of  the  world, 
And  life  is  as  it  were  not;  down  the  sky. 

Forth  from  thy  cave,  wide-roaming,  thou  dost  come 
To  hold  nocturnal  orgies. 

3.  Behold ! 

Stemming  with  eager  prow  the  Atlantic  tide. 

Holds  on  the  intrepid  mariner;  abroad 
The  wings  of  night  brood  shadowy;  heave  the  waves 
Around  him,  mutinous,  their  curling  heads. 
Portentous  of  a storm ; all  hands  are  plied, 

A zealous  task,  and  sounds  the  busy  deck 
With  notes  of  preparation ; many  an  eye 
Is  upward  cast  toward  the  clouded  heaven; 


ECLECTIC  (SERIES. 


67 


And  many  a thought,  with  troubled  tenderness 
Dwells  on  the  calm  tranquillity  of  home  ; 

And  many  a heart  its  supplicating  prayer 
Dreathes  forth;  meanwhile,  the  boldest  sailor’s  cheek 
Blanches;  stout  courage  fails;  young  childhood’s  shriek. 
Awfully  piercing,  bursts*  and  womans  fears 
Are  speechless. 

4.  With  a low,  insidious  moan, 

Rush  past  the  gales  that  harbinger  thy  way. 

And  hail  thy  advent ; gloom  the  murky  clouds 
Darker  around;  and  heave  the  maddening  waves 
Higher  their  crested  summits.  With  a glare. 

Unveiling  but  the  clouds  and  foaming  sea. 

Flashes  the  lightning;  then,  with  doubling  peal, 
Reverberating  to  the  gates  of  heaven, 

Rolls  the  deep  thunder,  with  tremendous  crash, 

Sublime  as  if  the  firmament  were  rent 

Amid  the  severing  clouds  that  pour  their  storms, 

Commingling  sea  and  sky. 

5.  Disturbed,  arise 

The  monsters  of  the  deep,  and  wheel  around 
Their  mountainous  bulk  unwieldy,  while  aloft. 

Poised  on  the  feathery  summit  of  the  wave. 

Hangs  the  frail  bark,  its  bowlings  of  despair, 

Lost  on  the  mocking  storm.  Then  frantic,  thou 
Dost  rise,  tremendous  Power,  thy  wings  unfurled, 
Unfurled,  but  not  to  succor  nor  to  save  : 

Then  is  thine  hour  of  triumph ; with  a yell 
Thou  rushest  on;  and  with  a maniac  tone 
Sing’st  in  the  rifted  shroud ; the  straining  mast 
Yields,  and  the  cordage  cracks. 

6.  Thou  churn’ st  the  deep 

To  madness,  tearing  up  the  yellow  sands 
From  their  profound'  recesses,  and  dost  strew 
The  clouds  around  thee,  and  within  thy  hand 
Tak’st  up  the  billowy  tide,  and  dashest  down 

The  vessel  to  destruction  ! She  is  not ! — 

But  when  the  morning  lifts  her  dewy  eye, 

And  to  a quiet  calm,  the  elements. 

Subsiding  from  their  fury,  have  dispersed. 

There  art  thou,  like  a satiate  conqueror. 

Recumbent  on  the  murmuring  deep,  thy  smiles 
All  unrepentant  of  the  savage  wreck. 


68 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


V.— THE  CATARACT  OF  LODORE. 

From  Southey. 

Robert  Southey,  a distinguished  English  poet,  was  born  in  Bristol,  in 
1774.  He  wrote  upon  a great  variety  of  subjects,  and  was,  in  1813,  ap- 
pointed Poet  Laureate,  a post  which  he  retained  till  his  decease,  in 
March,  1843. 

[This  lesson  is  inserted  on  account  of  its  very  peculiar  adaptation 
for  practice  on  the  difficult  sound  ing.'] 

How  does  the  water 
Come  down  at  Lodore  ? 

From  its  sources  which  well 
In  the  tarn  on  the  fell ; 

From  its  fountains 
In  the  mountains, 

Its  rills  and  its  gills ; 

Through  moss  and  through  brake, 

It  runs  and  it  creeps 
For  awhile,  till  it  sleeps 
In  its  own  little  lake. 

And  thence  at  departing 
Awakening  and  starting, 

It  runs  through  the  reeds, 

And  away  it  proceeds. 

Through  meadow  and  glade, 

In  sun  and  in  shade. 

And  through  the  wood-shelter, 

Among  crags  in  its  flurry. 

Helter-skelter, 

Hurry-skurry. 

Here  it  comes  sparkling. 

And  there  it  lies  darkling; 

Now  smoking  and  frothing 
Its  tumult  and  wrath  in. 

Till,  in  this  rapid  race 
On  which  it  is  bent. 

It  reaches  the  place 
Of  its  steep  descent. 

The  cataract  strong 
Then  plunges  along. 

Striking  and  raninir 


ECLECTIC  SERIEIL 


GO 


As  if  a war  Avaging 

Its  caverns  and  rocks  among; 

Rising  and  leaping, 

Sinking  and  creeping, 

Swelling  and  sweeping. 

Showering  and  springing, 

Flying  and  flinging. 

Writhing  and  ringing. 

Eddying  and  AAdiisking, 

Spouting  and  frisking, 

Turning  and  twisting, 

Around  and  around 
With  endless  rebound* 

Smiting  and  fighting, 

A sight  to  delight  in; 

Confounding,  astounding. 

Dizzying  and  deafening  the  ear  with  its  sound. 

Collecting,  projecting. 

Receding  and  speeding. 

And  shocking  and  rocking. 

And  darting  and  parting. 

And  threading  and  spreading. 

And  whizzing  and  hissing. 

And  dripping  and  skipping. 

And  hitting  and  splitting. 

And  shining  and  tAvining, 

And  rattling  and  battling. 

And  shaking  and  quaking. 

And  pouring  and  roaring. 

And  waving  and  raving. 

And  tossing  and  crossing. 

And. guggling  and  struggling. 

And  heaving  and  cleaving. 

And  moaning  and  groaning. 

And  glittering  and  frittering. 

And  gathering  and  feathering, 

And  Avhitening  and  brightening, 

And  quivering  and  shivering. 

And  hurrying  and  skurrying. 

And  thundering  and  floundering: 

Dividing  and  gliding  and  sliding. 

And  falling  and  brawling  and  sprawlin^r, 

6 


70 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


And  driving  and  riving  and  striving, 

And  sprinkling  and  twinkling  and  wrinkling: 

And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and  jumping, 
And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clashing; 
xAnd  so  never  ending,  but  always  descending, 

Sounds  and  motions  forever  and  ever  are  blending. 

All  at  once  and  all  o’er,  with  a mighty  uproar: 

And  this  way,  the  water  comes  down  at  Lodore. 


ON  INFLECTION. 

The  following  exorcises  to  the  62d  are,  most  of  them,  marked 
with  the  appropriate  inflections,  beginning  with  a few  of  the  more 
simple  principles,  and  gradually  adding  others. 


VI.— INDUSTRY  NECESSARY  FOR  THE  ORATOR. 

From  H.  Ware,  Jr, 

1.  The  history  of  the  world  is  full  of  testimony  to  prove 
how  much  depends  upon  industry';  not  an  eminent  author 
has  lived  but  is  an  example'  of  it.  Yet,  in  contradiction  to 
all  this',  the  almost  universal  feeling  appears  to  be,  that  in- 
dustry can  effect  nothing',  that  eminence  is  the  result  of 
accident',  and  that  every  one  must  be  content  to  remain  just 
what  he  may  happen  to  be'.  Thus  multitudes',  who  come 
forward  as  teachers  and  guides,  suffer  themselves  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  most  indifferent  attainments,  and  a miserable  medi- 
ocrity', without  so  much  as  inquiring  how  they  might  rise 
higher,  much  less  making  any  attempt'  to  rise. 

2.  For  any  other  art  they  would  serve  an  apprenticeship, 
and  would  be  ashamed  to  practice  it  in  public',  before  they 
hav^  learned'  it.  If  any  one  would  sing',  he  attends  a 
master,  and  is  drilled  in  the  very  elementary  principles';  and, 
only  after  the  most  laborious  process,  dares  to  exercise  his 
voice  in  public'.  This  he  does',  though  he  has  scarce  any 
thing  to  learn  but  the  mechanical  execution  of  what  lies,  in 
sensible  forms,  before  his  eye'.  But  the  extempore  speaker', 
who  is  to  invent  as  well  as  to  utter,  to  carry  on  an  operation 
of  the  mind  as  well  as  to  produce  sound’,  enters  upon 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


71 


the  work  without  preparatory  discipline,  and  then  wonders 
*;hat  he  fails'. 

3.  If  he  were  learning  to  play  on  the  flute  for  public  exhi- 
bition, what  hours  and  days  would  he  spend  in  giving  facility 
to  his  fingers,  and  attaining  the  power  of  the  sweetest  and  most 
impressive  execution'.  If  he  were  devoting  himself  to  the 
organ',  what  months  and  years  would  he  labor,  that  he  might 
know  its  compass,  and  be  master  of  its  keys',  and  be  able  to 
draw  out,  at  will,  all  its  various  combinations  of  harmonious 
sounds',  and  its  full  richness  and  delicacy  of  expression  . 
And  yet,  he  will  fancy,  that  the  grandest,  the  most  various, 
the  most  expressive  of  all  instruments',  which  the  infinite 
Creator  has  fashioned  by  the  union  of  an  intellectual  soul  with 
the  powers  of  speech,'  may  be  played  upon  without  study  or 
practice'.  He  comes  to  it  a mere  uninstructed  tyro',  and 
thinks  to  manage  all  its  stops',  and  to  command  the  whole 
compass  of  its  varied  and  comprehensive  power'.  He  finds 
himself  a bungler  in  the  attempt,  is  mortified  at  his  failure', 
and  settles  in  his  mind  forever,  that  he  attempts  in  vain'. 

4.  Success  in  every  art,  whatever  may  be  the  natural  talent, 
is  always  the  reward  of  industry  and  pains'.  But  the  in- 
stances are  many,  of  men  of  the  finest  natural  genius,  whose 
beginning  has  promised  much,  but  who  have  degenerated 
wretchedly  as  they  advanced,  because  they  trusted  to  their 
gifts',  and  made  no  effort  to  improve'.  That  there  have 
never  been  other  men  of  equal  endowments  with  Cicero  and 
Demosthenes',  none  would  venture  to  suppose'.  If  those 
great  men  had  been  content,  like  others,  to  continue  as  they 
began,  and  had  never  made  their  persevering  efforts  of  im- 
provement', their  countries  would  have  been  little  benefited 
by  their  genius,  and  the  world  would  never  have  known  their 
fame'.  They  would  have  been  lost  in  the  undistinguished 
crowd  that  sunk  to  oblivion  around'  them, 

5.  Of  how  many  more  will  the  same  remark  prove  true' ! 
What  encouragement  is  thus  given  to  the  industrious'/  With 
such  encouragement,  how  inexcusable  is  the  negligence  which 
suffers  the  most  interesting  and  important  truths  to  seem 
heavy  and  dull,  and  fall  ineffectual  to  the  ground^  through 
mere  sluggishness  in  the  delivery' ! How  unworthy  of  one 
who  performs  the  high  function  of  a religious  instructor,  upon 


72 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


whom  depend,  in  a great  measure,  the  religious  knowledge', 
and  devotional  sentiment',  and  final  character'  of  many  fellow 
beings,  to  imagine  that  he  can  worthily  discharge  this  great 
concern  by  occasionally  talking  for  an  hour,  he  knows  not 
how',  and  in  a manner  he  has  taken  no  pains  to  render  cor- 
rect', or  attractive*' ; and  which,  simply  through  that  want  of 
command  over  himself,  which  study  would  give,  is  immethod- 
ical',  verbose',  inaccurate',  feeble',  trifling'!  It  has  been 
said  of  a great  preacher. 

That  truths  divine  come  mended  from  his  tongue'. 

Alas ! they  come  ruined  and  worthless  from  such  a man  as 
this'.  They  lose  that  holy  energy,  by  which  they  are  to  con- 
vert the  soul,  and  purify  man  for  heaven,  and  sink,  in  interest 
and  efficacy,  below  the  level  of  those  principles',  which  govern 
the  ordinary  affairs  of  this  lower  world'. 

Remark. — In  the  last  paragraph,  the  words  “knowledge,”  “senti- 
ment,” “character,”  and  “ immethodical,”  “verbose,”  “feeble,’'  &c., 
are  embraced  under  the  rule  for  series.  See  Rules  X and  XL 


VII.— THE  OLD  HOUSE-CLOCK. 

1.  O!  the  old,  old  clock  of  the  household  stock"", 

Was  the  brightest  thing,  and  neatest'; 

Its  hands,  though  old,  had  a touch  of  gold^, 

And  its  chimes  rang  still  the  sweetest'; 

’T  was  a monitor,  too,  though  its  words  Avere  feAv^, 
Yet  they  lived,  though  nations  altered'; 

And  its  voice,  still  strong,  Avarned  old  and  young/ 
When  the  voice  of  friendship  faltered' : 

“Tick!  tick!”  it  said,  “quick,  to  bed': 

For  ten  I’A^e  giA^en  Avarning'!” 

Up!  up!  and  go,  or  else  you  know^, 

You’ll  never  rise  soon  in  the  morning'!” 

2.  A friendly  voice  was  that  old,  old  clock^, 

As  it  stood  in  the  corner  smiling. 

And  blessed  the  time  Avith  a merry  chime, 

The  wintry  hours  beguiling'; 

But  a cross  old  voice  was  that  tiresome  clock^, 

As  it  called  at  day-break  boldly'; 

When  the  dawn  looked  gray  o’er  the  misty  way' 


ECLECTIC  SERIES 


73 


And  the  early  air  looked  coldly' : 

“Tick!  tick!”  it  said,  “quick  out  of  bed; 

For  five  I’ve  given  warning'; 

You’ll  never  have  health,  you’ll  never  have  wealth^ 
Unless  you’re  up  soon  in  the  morning^!” 

3.  Still  hourly  the  sound  goes  round  and  round^, 

With  a tone  that  ceases  never^; 

While  fears  are  shed  for  bright  days  fled^, 

And  the  old  friends  lost  forever ! 

Its  heart  beats  on,  though  hearts  are  gone, 

That  beat  like  ours,  though  stronger'; 

Its  hands  still  move,  though  hands  we  love' 

Are  clasped  on  earth  no  longer' ' 

“Tick!  tick!”  it  said,  “to  the  church-yard  bed', 

The  grave  hath  given  warning'; 

Up!  up!  and  rise^,  and  look  at  the  skies, 

And  prepare  for  a heavenly  morning'!” 


VIIL— SCHEMES  OF  LIFE  OFTEN  ILLUSORY. 

From  Dr.  JoH^^soN. 

Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  was  born  in  Litchfield,  England,  in  1709.  He 
went  to  London,  in  1736,  determined  to  devote  himself  to  literature, 
and  he  maintained  himself,  principally,  by  writing  for  the  magazines 
and  other  periodicals.  After  the  publication  of  the  Rambler  and  the 
English  Dictionary^  he  found  himself  indisputably  at  the  head  of  his 
literary  contemporaries.  He  died  in  1784. 

1.  Omar,  the  gon  of  Hassan',  had  passed  seventy-five 
years  in  honor  and  prosperity'.  The  favor  of  three  successive 
caliphs  had  filled  his  house  with  gold  and  silver;  and  when- 
ever he  appeared',  the  benedictions  of  the  people  proclaimed 
his  passage\ 

2.  Terrestrial  happiness  is  of  short  continuance'.  The 
brightness  of  the  fiame  is  wasting  its  fuel' ; the  fragrant  flower 
is  passing  away  in  its  own  odors'.  The  vigor  of  Omar  began 
to  fail';  the  curls  of  beauty  fell  from  his  head';  strength 
departed  from  his  hands,  and  agility  from  his  feet'.  He  gave 
back  to  the  caliph  the  keys  of  trust,  and  the  seals  of  secrecy ; 
and  sought  no  other  pleasure  for  the  remainder  of  life  than  the 
converse  of  the  wise  and  the  gratitude  of  the  good'. 


74 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


3.  The  powers  of  his  mind  were  yet  unimpaired.  His 
chamber  was  filled  by  visitants,  eager  to  catch  the  dictates  of 
experience,  and  officious  to  pay  the  tribute  of  admiration. 
Caleb,  the  son  of  the  viceroy  of  Egypt',  entered  every  day 
early,  and  retired  late'.  He  was  beautiful  and  eloquent' : 
Omar  admired  his  wit,  and  loved  his  docility. 

4.  “Tell  me,”  said  Caleb,  “thou  to  whose  voice  nations 
have  listened,  and  whose  wisdom  is  known  to  the  extremities 
of  Asia',  tell  me,  how  I may  resemble  Omar  the  prudent'. 
The  arts  by  which  thou  hast  gained  power  and  preserved  it, 
are  to  thee  no  longer  necessary  or  useful ; impart  to  me'  the 
secret  of  thy  conduct,  and  teach  me  the  plan  upon  which  thy 
wisdom  has  built  thy  fortune'.” 

5.  “Young  man',”  said  Omar,  “it  is  of  little  use  to  form 
plans  of  life'.  When  I took  my  first  survey,  of  the  world,  iu 
my  twentieth  year',  having  considered  the  various  conditions 
of  mankind,  in  the  hour  of  solitude,  I said  thus  to  myself, 
leaning  against  a cedar,  which  spread  its  branches  over  my 
head : ‘ Seventy  years  are  allowed  to  man  ; I have  yet  fifty 
remaining. 

6.  “ ‘ Ten  years  I will  allot  to  the  attainment  of  knowl- 
edge', and  ten  I will  pass  in  foreign  countries  ; I shall  be 
learned,  and  therefore  shall  be  honored';  every  city  will 
shout  at  my  arrival,  and  every  student  will  solicit  my  friend- 
ship'. Twenty  years  thus  passed,  will  store  my  mind  with 
images,  which  I shall  be  busy,  through  the  rest  of  my  life, 
in  combining  and  comparing.  I shall  revel  in  inexhaustible 
accumulations  of  intellectual  riches;  I shall  find  new  pleas- 
ures for  every  moment,  and  shall  never  more  be  weary  of 
myself. 

7.  “ ‘ I will  not,  however,  deviate  too  far  from  the  beaten 
track  of  life' ; but  will  try  what  can  be  found  in  female  deli- 
cacy'. I will  marry  a wife  as  beautiful  as  the  houries', 
and  wise  as  Zobeide';  and  with  her  I will  live  twenty  years 
within  the  suburbs  of  Bagdat,  in  every  pleasure  that  wealth 
can  purchase,  and  fancy  can  invent. 

8.  “ ‘I  will  then  retire  to  a rural  dwelling,  pass  my  days 
in  obscurity  and  contemplation ; and  lie  silently  down  on  the 
bed  of  death.  Through  my  life  it  shall  be  my  settled  resolu- 
tion; that  I will  never  depend  on  the  smile  of  princes;  that  I 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


75 


will  never  stand  exposed  to  the  artifices  of  courts;  I will 
never  pant  for  public  honors,  nor  disturb  my  quiet  with  the 
affairs  of  state.’  Such  was  my  scheme  of  life,  which  I 
impressed  indelibly  upon  my  memory. 

9.  “ The  first  part  of  my  ensuing  time  was  to  be  spent  in 
search  of  knowledge',  and  I know  not  how  I was  diverted 
from  my  design'.  I had  no  visible  impediments  without',  nor 
any  ungovernable  passions  within'.  I regarded  knowledge  as 
the  highest  honor,  and  the  most  engaging  pleasure' ; yet  day 
stole  upon  day,  and  month  glided  after  month,  till  I found 
that  seven  years  of  the  first  ten  had  vanished',  and  left 
nothing  behind'  them. 

10.  “I  now  postponed  my  purpose  of  traveling;  for  why 
should  I go  abroad',  while  so  much  remained  to  be  learned  at 
home'?  I immured  myself  for  four  years,  and  studied  the 
laws  of  the  empire.  The  fame  of  my  skill  reached  the 
judges : I was  found  able  to  speak  upon  doubtful  questions, 
and  I was  commanded  to  stand  at  the  footstool  of  the  caliph. 
I was  heard  with  attention ; I was  consulted  with  confidence, 
and  the  love  of  praise  fastened  on  my  heart. 

11.  “I  still  wished  to  see  distant  countries;  listened  with 
rapture  to  the  relations  of  travelers,  and  resolved  some  time 
to  ask  my  dismission,  that  I might  feast  my  soul  with 
novelty';  but  my  presence  was  always  necessary,  and  the 
stream  of  business  hurried  me  along.  Sometimes,  I was 
afraid  lest  I should  be  charged  with  ingratitude ; but  I still 
proposed  to  travel,  and  therefore  would  not  confine  myself 
by  marriage. 

12.  “ In  my  fiftieth  year',  I began  to  suspect  that  the  time 
of  my  traveling  was  past;  and  thought  it  best  to  lay  hold  on 
the  felicity  yet  in  my  power,  and  indulge  myself  in  domestic' 
pleasures.  But,  at  fifty,  no  man  easily  finds  a woman  beau- 
tiful as  the  houries,  and  wise  as  Zobeide.  I inquired  and 
rejected,  consulted  and  deliberated,  till  the  sixty-second  year 
made  me  ashamed  of  wishing  to  marry.  I had  now  nothing 
left  but  retirement' ; and  for  retirement  I never  found  a time', 
till  disease  forced  me  from  public  employment'. 

13.  “ Such  was  my  scheme',  and  such  has  been  its  conse- 
quence'. With  an  insatiable  thirst  for  knowledge',  I trified 
away  the  years  of  improvement';  with  a restless  desire  of 


76 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


seeing  different  countries',  I have  always  resided  in  the  same 
city' ; with  the  highest  expectation  of  connubial  felicity  , I 
have  lived  unmarried' ; and  with  an  unalterable  resolution  of 
contemplative  retirement,  I am  going  to  die  within  the  walls 
of  Bagdat'.” 


IX.— THE  NEEDLE. 

1.  The  gay  belles  of  fashion  may  boast  of  excelling 

In  waltz  or  cotillon,  at  whist  or  quadrille; 

And  seek  admiration  by  vauntingly  telling 
Of  drawing,  and  painting,  arid  musical  skill: 

But  give  me  the  fair  one,  in  country  or  city^, 

Whose  home  and  its  duties  are  dear  to  her  heart, 
Who  cheerfully  warbles  some  rustical  ditty^, 

While  plying  the  needle  with  exquisite  art : 

The  bright  little  needle^,  the  swift-flying  needle'^, 
The  needle  directed  by  beauty  and  art. 

2.  If  Love  have  a potent,  a magical  tokeiL, 

A talisman,  ever  resistless  and  true^, 

A charm  that  is  never  evaded  or  broken^, 

A witchery  certain  the  heart  to  subdue^, 

’T  is  this^  ; and  his  armory  never  has  furnished 
So  keen  and  unerring,  or  polished  a dart; 

Let  beauty  direct  it,  so  polished  and  burnished', 
And  0 ! it  is  certain  of  touching  the  heart^ : 

The  bright  little  needle',  the  swift-flying  needle'. 

The  needle  directed  by  beauty  and  art'. 

3.  Be  wise,  then,  ye  maidens^,  nor  seek  admiration^, 

By  dressing  for  conquest,  and  flirting  with  alD; 
You  never,  whate’er  be  your  fortune  or  station^, 
Appear  half  so  lovely  at  rout  or  at  balF, 

As  gayly  convened  at  the  work-covered  table. 

Each  cheerfully  active  playing  her  part', 

Beguiling  the  task  with  a song  or  a fable^, 

And  plying  the. needle  with  exquisite  art: 

The  bright  little  needle,  the  swift-flying  needle, 

The  needle  directed  by  beauty  and  art. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


77 


X.— DEATH  OF  LITTLE  NELL. 

From  Dickens. 

Charles  Dickens  was  born  at  Portsmouth,  England  in  1812.  He 
was,  perhaps,  the  most  popular  writer  of  his  day.  His  works  are  nu- 
merous and  are  admired  for  their  accurate  delineation  of  English  life. 
He  died  in  1870.  The  following  is  from  “The  Old  Curiosity  Shop.’' 

1.  She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm',  so  free 
from  trace  of  pain',  so  fair  to  look'  upon.  She  seemed  a 
creature  fresh  from  the  hand  of  God,  and  waiting  for  the 
breath  of  life';  not  one  who  had  lived',  and  suffered  death'. 
Her  couch  was  dressed  with  here  and  there  some  winter  berries 
and  green  leaves,  gathered  in  a spot  she  had  been  used  to 
favor.  When  I die',  put  near  me  something  that  has  loved 
the  light,  and  had  the  sky  above  it  always'.”  These  were 
her  words. 

2.  She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell  was 
dead^.  Her  little  bird,  a poor  slight  thing  the  pressure  of  a 
finger  would  have  crushed,  was  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage', 
and  the  strong  heart  of  its  child-mistress  was  mute  and 
motionless  forever'!  Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early 
cares,  her  sufferings,  and  fatigues'?  All  gone'.  Sorrow  was 
dead,  indeed,  in  her;  but  peace  and  perfect  happiness  were 
born,  imaged  in  her  tranquil  beauty  and  profound  repose. 

3.  And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  this 
change.  Yes'!  the  old  fireside  had  smiled  upon  that  same 
sweet  face';  it  had  passed,  like  a dreamt  through  haunts 
of  misery  and  care';  at  the  door  of  the  poor  school-master  on 
the  summer  evening',  before  the  furnace  fire  upon  the  cold 
wet  night',  at  the  still  bedside  of  the  dying  boy',  there  had 
been  the  same  mild  and  lovely  look.  So  shall  we  know  the 
angels,  in  their  majesty,  after  death. 

4.  The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and  had  the 
small  hand  tight  folded  to  his  breast  for  warmth.  It  was  the 
hand  she  had  stretched  out  to  him  with  her  last  smile';  the 
hand  that  had  led  him  on  through  all  their  wanderings'. 
Ever  and  anon  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips ; then  hugged  it  to 
his  breast  again,  murmuring  that  it  was  warmer  now,  and,  as 
be  said  it,  he  looked  in  agony,  to  those  who  stood  around,  as 
if  imploring  them  to  help  her. 

7 ’ 


78 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


5.  She  was  dead,  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of  help.  The 
ancient  rooms  she  had  seemed  to  fill  with  life,  even  while 
her  own  was  waning  fast',  the  garden  she  had  tended',  the 
eyes  she  had  gladdened',  the  noiseless  haunts  of  many  a 
thoughtful  hour',  the  paths  she  had  trodden,  as  it  were,  but 
yesterday,  could  know  her  no  more'. 

6.  “It  is  not,”  said  the  school-master,  as  he  bent  down  to- 
kiss  her  on  the  cheek,  and  gave  his  tears  free  vent,  “it  is  not 
in  this  world  that  Heaven’s  justice  ends.  Think  what  earth 
is,  compared  with  the  world  to  which  her  young  spirit  has 
winged  its  early  flight,  and  say,  if  one  deliberate  wish,  ex- 
pressed in  solemn  tones  above  this  bed,  could  call  her  back  to 
life',  which  of  us  would  utter  it?” 

7.  She  had  been  dead  two  days.  They  were  all  about  her 
at  the  time,  knowing  that  the  end  was  drawing  on.  She  died 
soon  after  day-break.  They  had  read  and  talked  to  her  in 
the  earlier  portion  of  the  night;  but,  as  the  hours  crept  on, 
she  sank  to  sleep.  They  could  tell  by  what  she  faintly  uttered 
in  her  dreams,  that  they  were  of  her  journeyings  with  the  old 
man ; they  were  of  no  painful  scenes,  but  of  people  who  had 
helped  them,  and  used  them  kindly ; for  she  often  said  “ Grod 
bless  you!”  with  great  fervor. 

8.  Waking,  she  never  wandered  in  her  mind  but  once,  and 
that  was  at  beautiful  music,  which,  she  said,  was  in  the  air. 
God  knows.  It  may  have  been.  Opening  her  eyes,  at  last, 
from  a very  quiet  sleep,  she  begged  that  they  would  kiss  her 
once  again.  That  done,  she  turned  to  the  old  man,  with  a 
lovely  smile  upon  her  face,  such,  they  said,  as  they  had  never 
seen,  and  could  never  forget,  and  clung,  with  both  her  arms, 
about  his  neck.  She  had  never  murmured  or  complained; 
but,  with  a quiet  mind,  and  manner  quite  unaltered,  save  that 
she  every  day  became  more  earnest  and  more  grateful  to  them, 
faded  like  the  light  upon  the  summer’s  evening. 

9.  The  child  who  had  been  her  little  friend,  came  there, 
almost  as  soon  as  it  was  day,  with  an  offering  of  dried  flowers, 
which  he  begged  them  to  lay  upon  her  breast.  He  told  them 
of  his  dream  again,  and  that  it  was  of  her  being  restored  to 
them,  just  as  she  used  to  be.  He  begged  hard  to  see  her : 
saying,  that  he  would  be  very  quiet,  and  that  they  need  not 
fear  his  being  alarmed,  for  he  had  sat  alone  by  his  young 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


79 


brother  all  day  long,  when  he  was  dead,  and  had  felt  glad 
to  be  so  near  him.  They  let  him  have  his  wish ; and,  indeed, 
he  kept  his  word,  and  was,  in  his  childish  way,  a lesson  to 
them  all. 

10.  Up  to  that  time,  the  old  man  had  not  spoken  once,  ex- 
cept to  her,  or  stirred  from  the  bedside.  But,  when  he  saw 
her  little  favorite,  he  was  moved  as  they  had  not  seen  him  yet, 
and  made  as  though  he  would  have  him  come  nearer.  Then, 
pointing  to  the  bed,  he  burst  into  tears  for  the  first  time,  and 
they  who  stood  by,  knowing  that  the  sight  of  this  child  had 
done  him  good,  left  them  alone  together. 

11.  Soothing  him  with  his  artless  talk  of  her,  the  child  per- 
suaded him  to  take  some  rest,  to  walk  abroad,  to  do  almost  as 
he  desired  him.  And,  when  the  day  came,  on  which  they 
must  remove  her,  in  her  earthly  shape,  from  earthly  eyes  for- 
ever, he  led  him  away,  that  he  might  not  know  when  she  was 
taken  from  him.  They  were  to  gather  fresh  leaves  and  berries 
for  her  bed. 

12.  And  now  the  bell,  the  bell  she  had  so  often  heard  by 
night  and  day,  and'  listened  to  with  solemn  pleasure,  almost 
as  a living  voice,  rung  its  remorseless  toll  for  her,  so  young, 
so  beautiful,  so  good.  Decrepit  age,  and  vigorous  life,  and 
blooming  youth,  and  helpless  infancy, — on  crutches,  in  the 
pride  of  health  and  strength,  in  the  full  blush  of  promise,  in 
the  mere  dawn  of  life,  gathered  round  her.  Old  men  were, 
there,  whose  eyes  were  dim  and  senses  failing,  grandmothers, 
who  might  have  died  ten  years  ago,  and  still  been  old,  the 
deaf,  the  blind,  the  lame,  the  palsied,  the  living  dead,  in  many 
shapes  and  forms,  to  see  the  closing  of  that  early  grave. 

13.  Along  the  crowded  path  they  bore  her  now,  pure  as 
the  newly  fallen  snow  that  covered  it,  whose  day  on  earth  had 
been  as  fieeting.  Under  that  porch,  where  she  had  sat  when- 
Heaven,  in  its  mercy,  brought  her  to  that  peaceful  spot,  she 
passed  again,  and  the  old  church  received  her  in  its  quiet 
shade. 


80 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


XL— ROMANTIC  STORY. 

Stalactites;  [pro.  sta-lac^tites,)  lime  in  the  shape  of  icicles, 
formed  by  drippings,  and  hanging  from  the  roof. 

Fiji;  [pro.  Fee^jee,)  a cluster  of  islands  in  the  South  Pacific. 

1.  There  is  a cavern  in  the  island  of  Hoonga,  one  of  the 
Tonga  islands,  in  the  South  Pacific  Ocean,  which  can  only 
be  entered  by  diving  into  the  sea',  and  which  has  no  other 
light  than  that  which  is  refiected  from  the  bottom  of  the 
water.  A young  chief  discovered  it  accidentally,  while 
diving  after  a turtle',  and  the  use  which  he  made  of  his 
discovery,  will  probably  be  sung  in  more  than  one  European 
language',  so  beautifully  is  it  adapted  for  a tale  in  verse. 

2.  There  was  a tyrannical  governor  at  Hoonga,  against 
whom  one  of  the  chiefs  formed  a plan  of  insurrection.  It 
was  betrayed',  and  the  chief,  with  all  his  family  and  kin, 
was  ordered  to  be  destroyed'.  He  had  a beautiful  daughter, 
betrothed  to  a chief  of  high  rank,  and  she  also  was  included' 
in  the  sentence.  The  youth  who  had  found  the  cavern,  and 
had  kept  the  secret  to  himself,  loved'  this  damsel.  He  told 
her  the  danger  in  time,  and  persuaded  her  to  trust  to  him. 
They  got  into  a canoe ; the  place  of  her  retreat  was  described 
to  her  on  the  way  to  it, — these  women  swim  like  mermaids', 
— she  dived  after  him',  and  rose  in  the  cavern'.  In  the 
widest  part  it  is  about  fifty  feet';  its  medium  height  being 
about  the  same,  and  it  is  hung  with  stalactites. 

3.  Here,  he  brought  her  the  choicest  food',  the  finest 
clothing',  mats  for  her  bed',  and  sandal-oil  to  perfume  her- 
self with.  Here,  he  visited  her  as  often  as  was  consistent 
with  prudence,  and  here,  as  may  be  imagined,  this  Tonga 
Leander  wooed  and  won  the  maid,  whom,  to  make  the  inter- 
est complete,  he  had  long  loved  in  secret,  when  he  had  no 
hope'.  Meantime  he  prepared,  with  all  his  dependents, 
male  and  female,  to  emigrate  in  secret  to  the  Fiji  islands. 

4.  The  intention  was  so  well  concealed,  that  they  em- 
barked in  safety',  and  his  people  asked  him,  at  the  point  of 
their  departure,  if  he  would  not  take  with  him  a Tonga 
wife';  and,  accordingly,  to  their  great  astonishment,  having 
steered  close  to  the  rock,  he  desired  them  to  wait  while  he 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


81 


went  into  tlie  sea  to  fetcli'  her,  jumped  overboard,  and  just 
as  they  were  beginning  to  be  seriously  alarmed  at  his  long 
disappearance',  he  rose  with  his  mistress  from  the  water. 
This  story  is  not  deficient  in  that  which  all  such  stories 
should  have',  to  be  perfectly  delightful' ; a fortunate  con- 
clusion. The  party  remained  at  the  Fijis  till  the  oppressor 
died',  and  then  returned  to  Hoonga,  where  they  enjoyed  a 
long  and  happy  life. 


XIL— THE  LONE  INDIAN. 

Mohawks;  a tribe  of  Indians  who  formerly  lived  in  the  state  of 
New  York. 

1.  For  many  a returning  autumn,  a lone  Indian  was  seen 
standing  at  the  consecrated  spot  we  have  mentioned ; but, 
just  thirty  years  after  the  death  of  Soonseetah,  he  was 
noticed  for  the  last  time.  His  step  was  then  firm,  and  his 
figure  erect,  though  he  seemed  old  and  wayworn.  Age  had 
not  dimmed  the  fire  of  his  eye,  but  an  expression  of  deep 
melancholy  had  settled  on  his  wrinkled  brow.  It  was 
Powontonamo';  he  who  had  once  been  the  eagle  of  the 
Mohawks.  He  came  to  lie  down  and  die  beneath  the  broad 
oak,  which  shadowed  the  grave  of  Sunny-eye. 

2.  Alas ! the  white  man’s  ax'  had  been  there.  The  tree 
that  he  had  planted  was  dead' ; and  the  vine,  which  had 
leaped  so  vigorously  from  branch  to  branch,  now  yellow 
and  withering,  was  falling  to  the  ground.  A deep  groan 
burst  from  the  soul  of  the  savage.  For  thirty  wearisome 
years,  he  had  watched  that  oak,  with  its  twining  tendrils. 
They  were  the  only  things  left  in  the  wide  world  for  him  to 
love',  and  they  were  gone. 

3.  He  looked  abroad.  The  hunting-land  of  his  tribe  was 
changed,  like  its  chieftain.  No  light  canoe  now  shot  down 
the  river,  like  a bird  upon  the  wing.  The  laden  boat  of  the 
white  man  alone  broke  its  smooth  surface.  The  English- 
man’s road  wound  like  a serpent  around  the  banks  of  the 
Mohawk';  and  iron  hoofs  had  so  beaten  down  the  war-path, 
that  a hawk’s  eye  could  not  discover  an  Indian  track.  The 
last  wigwam  was  destroyed' ; and  the  sun  looked  boldly  down 


82 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


upon  spots  he  had  only  visited  by  stealth',  during  thousands 
and  thousands  of  moons. 

4.  The  few  remaining  trees,  clothed  in  the  fantastic 
mourning  of  autumn' ; the  long  line  of  heavy  clouds  melting 
away  before  the  evening  sun' ; and  the  distant  mountain,  seen 
through  the  blue  mist  of  departing  twilight',  alone  remained 
as  he  had  seen  them  in  his  boyhood.  All  things  spoke  a sad 
language  to  the  heart  of  the  desolate  Indian.  “Yes',”  said 
he,  “ the  young  oak  and  the  vine  are  like  the  Eagle  and  the 
Sunny-eye.  They  are  cut  down',  torn'  and  trampled'  on. 
The  leaves  are  falling,  and  the  clouds  are  scattering  like  my 
people.  I wish  I could  once  more  see  the  trees  standing 
thick,  as  they  did  when  my  mother  held  me  to  her  bosom, 
and  sung  the  warlike  deeds  of  the  Mohawks.” 

5.  A mingled  expression  of  grief  and  anger  passed  over 
his  face,  as  he  watched  a loaded  boat  in  its  passage  across 
the  stream.  “ The  white  man  carries  food  to  his  wife  and 
children,  and  he  finds  them  in  his  home',”  said  he;  “where 
are  the  squaw  and  papoose  of  the  red'  man  ? They  are 
here'!”  As  he  spoke,  he  fixed  his  eye  thoughtfully  on  the 
grave.  After  a gloomy  silence,  he  again  looked  round  upon 
the  fair  scene,  with  a wandering  and  troubled  gaze.  “ The 
pale'  face  may  like  it,”  murmured  he;  “but  an  Indian'  can 
not  die  here  in  peace'.”  So  saying',  he  broke  his  bow- 
string , snapped  his  arrows',  threw  them  on  the  burial-place 
of  his  fathers',  and  departed  forever'. 

Remark. — The  words  “ down/’  “torn,”  and  “trampled,”  in  the  last 
paragraph  but  one,  and  “string,”  “arrows,”  “fathers,”  and  “for- 
ever,” in  the  last  paragraph,  are  examples  of  inflection  which  may, 
perhaps,  more  appropriately  come  under  the  head  of  “series;”  but, 
by  examining  them,  it  will  be  found,  that  the  rule  which  gives  them 
the  falling  inflection  wherever  the  sense  is  complete,  and  that  which 
requires  the  last  but  one  to  be  the  rising  inflection,  are  applicable  in 
these  cases.  Indeed,  the  rule  for  series  is  substantially  the  com- 
bination of  these  two  principles,  with  that  of  emphasis,  as  laid  down 
in  Rule  II 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


83 


XIII.— TO  THE  DEAD. 

From  Brainard. 

John  G.  C.  Brainard  was  born  in  Connecticut,  in  1796,  and  was  edu- 
cated for  the  bar.  In  the  circumstances  of  his  life  and  death,  he  re- 
minds one  of  Henry  Kirke  White;  but  as  a poet,  he  was  very  much 
White's  superior.  He  died  of  consumption,  in  New  London,  Conn.,  in 
1828. 

1.  How  many  now  are  dead  to  me^ 

That  live  to  others  jetM 
How  many  are  alive  to  me 
Who  crumble  in  their  graves,  nor  see 
That  sickening,  sinking  look,  which  we. 

Till  dead,  can  ne’er  forget. 

2.  Beyond  the  blue  seas,  far  away, 

Most  wretchedly  alone. 

One  died  in  prison\  far  away. 

Where  stone  on  stone  shut  out  the  day, 

And  never  hope  or  comfort’s  ray 
In  his  lone  dungeon  shone. 

3.  Dead  to  the  world\  alive  to  me^. 

Though  months  and  years  have  passed' 

In  a lone  hour,  his  sigh  to  me 
Comes  like  the  hum  of  some  wild  bee^, 

And  then  his  form  and  face  1 see, 

As  when  I saw  Kim  last. 

4.  And  one,  with  a bright  lip,  and  cheek. 

And  eye,  is  dead'  to  me. 

How  pale  the  bloom  of  his  smooth  cheek'  • 

His  lip  was  cold^ — it  would  not  speak: 

His  heart  was  dead — for  it  did  not  break, 

And  his  eye^,  for  it  did  not  see\ 

5.  Then  for  the  living^  be  the  tomb^, 

And  for  the  deadf^  the  smile', 

Engrave  oblivion  on  the  tomb 
Of  pulseless  life  and  deadly  bloom; 

Dim  is  such  glare ; but  bright  the  bloom 
Around  the  funeral  pile. 


84 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


XIV.— THE  MUSIC  OF  NATURE. 

From  Willis. 

Nathaniel  P.  Willis,  an  American  poet,  was  born  in  Portland,  in 
1807,  but  soon  removed  to  Boston.  He  is  the  author  of  many  populai 
prose  and  poetical  works,  and  was,  for  many  years,  connected  witl. 
various  periodicals  at  New  York.  He  died  in  1867. 

1.  There  is  a melancholy  music  in  autumn.  The  leaves 
float  sadly  about  with  a look  of  peculiar  desolation',  waving 
capriciously  in  the  wind,  and  falling  with  a just  audible 
sound,  that  is  a very  sigh  for  its  sadness.  And  then,  when 
the  breeze  is  fresher,  though  the  early  autumn  months  are 
mostly  still,  they  are  swept  on  with  a cheerful  rustle  over 
the  naked  harvest  fields,  and  about  in  the  eddies  of  the 
blast';  and  though  I have,  sometimes,  in  the  glow  of  exer- 
cise, felt  my  life  securer  in  the  triumph  of  the  brave  contest, 
yet,  in  the  chill  of  the  evening,  or  when  any  sickness  of  the 
mind  or  body  was  on  me,  the  moaning  of  those  withered 
leaves  has  pressed  down  my  heart  like  a sorrow',  and  the 
cheerful  fire,  and  the  voices  of  my  many  sisters,  might  scarce 
remove'  it. 

2.  Then  for  the  music  of  winter^.  I love  to  listen  to  the 
falling  of  snow.  It  is  an  unobtrusive  and  sweet'  music. 
You  may  temper  your  heart  to  the  serenest  mood,  by  its  low 
murmur.  It  is  that  kind  of  music,  that  only  obtrudes  upon 
your  ear  when  your  thoughts  come  languidly.  You  need 
not  hear  it,  if  your  mind  is  not  idle.  It  realizes  my  dream 
of  another  world,  where  music  is  intuitive  like  a thought', 
and  comes  only  when  it  is  remembered. 

3.  And  the  /ros^'  too  has  a melodious  “ ministry. You 
will  hear  its  crystals  shoot  in  the  dead  of  a clear  night,  as  if 
the  moonbeams  were  splintering  like  arrows  on  the  ground' ; 
and  you  will  listen  to  it  the  more  earnestly,  that  it  is  the 
going  on  of  one  of  the  most  cunning  and  beautiful  of 
nature's  deep  mysteries.  I know  nothing  so  wonderful  as 
the  shooting  of  a crystal.  God  has  hidden  its  principle  as 
yet  from  the  inquisitive  eye  of  the  philosopher,  and  we 
must  be  content  to  gaze  on  its  exquisite  beauty,  and  listen, 
in  mute  wonder,  to  the  noise  of  its  invisible  workmanship. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


85 


It  is  too  fine  a knowledge  for  us.  We  shall  comprehend 
it,  when  we  know  how  the  morning  stars  sang  together. 

4.  You  would  hardly  look  for  music  in  the  dreariness  of 
early  winter.  But,  before  the  keener  frosts  set  in,  and  while 
the  warm  winds  are  yet  stealing  back  occasionally,  like  re- 
grets of  the  departed  summer,  there  will  come  a soft  rain  oi 
a heavy  mist',  and  when  the  north  wind  returns^,  there  will 
be  drops  suspended  like  ear-ring  jewels,  between  the  fila- 
ments of  the  cedar  tassels,  and  in  the  feathery  edges  of 
the  dark  green  hemlocks',  and,  if  the  clearing  up  is  not 
followed  by  the  heavy  wind',  they  will  be  all  frozen  in  their 
places  like  well  set  gems.  The  next  morning,  the  warm  sun 
comes  out',  and  by  the  middle  of  the  varm  dazzling  fore- 
noon', they  are  all  loosened  from  the  close  touch  which  sus- 
tained them,  and  they  will  drop  at  the  lightest  motion. 

5.  If  you  go  upon  the  south  side  of  the  wood  at  that  hour, 
you  will  hear  music.  The  dry  foliage  of  the  summer’s 
shedding  is  scattered  over  the  ground',  and  the  round,  hard 
drops  ring  out  clearly  and  distinctly,  as  they  are  shaken 
down  with  the  stirring  of  the  breeze.  It  is  something  like 
the  running  of  deep  and  rapid  water',  only  more  fitful'  and 
merrier';  but  to  one  who  goes  out  in  nature  with  his  heart 
open',  it  is  a pleasant  music',  and,  in  contrast  with  the  stern 
character  of  the  season,  delightful. 

6.  Winter  has  many  other  sounds  that  give  pleasure  to 
the  seeker  for  hidden  sweetness';  but  they  are  too  rare  and 
accidental  to  be  described  distinctly.  The  brooks  have  a 
sullen  and  muffled  murmur  under  their  frozen  surface' ; the 
ice  in  the  distant  river  heaves  up  with  the  swell  of  the 
current',  and  falls  again  to  the  bank  with  a prolonged  echo' ; 
and  the  woodman’s  ax  rings  cheerfully  out  from  the  bosom 
of  the  unrobed  forest.  These  are,  at  best,  however,  but 
melancholy'  sounds,  and,  like  all  that  meets  the  eye  in  that 
cheerless  season,  they  but  drive  in  the  heart  upon  itself.  I 
believe  it  is  ordered  in  God’s  wisdom.  We  forget''  ourselves 
in  the  enticement  of  the  sweet  summer.  Its  music  and  its 
loveliness  win  away  the  senses  that  link  up  the  affections', 
and  we  need  a hand  to  turn  us  back  tenderly,  and  hide  from 
us  the  outward  idols',  in  whose  worship  we  are  forgetting 
the  high  and  more  spiritual  altars. 


86 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


XV.— THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

From  Longfellow. 

Henry  W.  Longfellow  was  born  in  Portland,  in  1807,  and  entered 
Bowdoin  College  at  the  age  of  fourteen.  He  held  a professorship  of 
modern  languages  in  the  same  institution,  and  in  1836  received  the  ap- 
pointment to  a professorship  of  the  same  kind  in  Harvard  University, 
Cambridge,  Mass.  His  reputation  as  a writer  is  well  known.  He  may 
be  ranked  among  the  first  poets  of  the  age. 

1.  Under  a spreading  chestnut-tree 

The  village  smithy  stands^ ; 

The  smith,  a mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands^; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

2.  His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  loiig\ 

His  face  is  like  the  tan^ ; 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat; 

He  earns  whate’er  he  can. 

And  looks  the  Avhole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

3.  Week  in^,  week  ouU,  from  morn^  till  night\ 

You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow'; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 

With  measured  beat  and  slow',  ‘ 

Like  a sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

4.  And  children  coming  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door^ ; 

They  love  to  sec  the  flaming  forge^, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar', 
iVnd  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
lake  chafi*  from  a threshing-floor. 

5.  He  goes,  on  Sunday  to  the  church. 

And  sits  among  his  boys' ; 

He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach', 

He  hears  his  daughter’s  voice. 

Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

6.  It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother’s  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise'^  1 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


87 


He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 
How  in  the  grave  she  lies' ; 

And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 
A tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

7.  Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes' ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close' ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done 
Has  earned  a night’s  repose. 

8i  Thanks',  thanks  to  thee,  mj  worthy  friend^, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught' ! 

Thus  at  the  darning  forge  of  life^ 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought' ; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anviF  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought' ! 


XVI.— THE  THUNDER-STORM. 

From  George  D.  Prentice. 

1.  I NEVER  was  a man  of  feeble  courage.  There  are  few 
scenes  of  either  human  or  elemental  strife',  upon  which  I 
have  not  looked  with  a brow  of  daring'.  I have  stood  in 
the  front  of  the  battle  when  the  swords  were  gleaming  and 
circling  around  me  like  fiery  serpents  in  the  air'.  I have 
seen  these  things  with  a swelling  soul,  that  knew  not,  that 
recked  not  danger. 

2.  But  there  is  something  in  the  thunder’s  voice,  that 
makes  me  tremble  like  a child.  I have  tried  to  overcome 
this  unmanly  weakness.  I have  called  pride  to  my  aid';  / 
have  sought  for  moral  courage  in  the  lessons  of  philosophy, 
but  it  avails  me  nothing.  At  the  first  low  moaning  of  the 
distant  cloud',  my  heart  shrinks  and  dies  within  me. 

3.  My  involuntary  dread  of  thunder  had  its  origin  in  an 
incident  that  occurred  when  I was  a boy  of  ten  years.  I had 
a little  cousin,  a girl  of  the  same  age  with  myself,  who  had 
been  the  constant  companion  of  my  youth.  Strange,  that, 
after  the  lapse  of  many  years,  that  occurrence  should  be  so 
familiar  to  me'!  I can  see  the  bright  yoflng  creature',  her 


88 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


eyes  flashing  like  a beautiful  gem',  her  free  locks  streaming 
as  in  joy  upon  the  rising  gale',  and  her  cheeks  glowing  like  a 
ruby',  through  a wreath  of  transparent  snow  . 

4.  Her  voice  had  the  melody  and  joyousness  of  a bird’s', 
and  when  she  bounded  over  the  wooded  hill  or  fresh  green 
valley,  shouting  a glad  answer  to  every  voice  of  nature,  and 
clapping  her  little  hands  in  the  ecstasy  of  young  existence', 
she  looked  as  if  breaking  away,  like  a free  nightingale,  from 
the  earth,  and  going  off  where  all  things  are  beautiful  like 
her'. 

5.  It  was  a morning  in  the  middle  of  August.  The  little 
girl  had  been  passing  some  days  at  my  father’s  house,  and 
she  was  now  to  return  home.  Her  path  lay  across  the  flelds, 
and  gladly  I became  the  companion  of  her  walk.  I never 
knew  a summer  morning  more  beautiful  and  still.  Only  one 
little  cloud  was  visible,  and  that  seemed  as  pure,  and  white, 
and  peaceful',  as  if  it  had  been  the  incense-smoke  of  some 
burning  censer  of  the  skies. 

6.  The  leaves  hung  silent  in  the  woods  , the  waters  in 
the  bay  had  forgotten  their  undulations',  the  flowers  were 
bending  their  heads,  as  if  dreaming  of  the  rainbow  and  dew', 
and  the  whole  atmosphere  was  of  such  a soft  and  luxurious 
sweetness',  that  it  seemed  a cloud  of  roses  scattered  down  by 
the  hands  of  Peri,  from  the  afar-off  garden  of  Paradise'. 
The  green  earth  and  the  blue  sea  lay  around,  in  their  bound- 
lessness, and  the  peaceful  sky  bent  over  and  kissed  them. 

7.  The  little  creature  at  my  side  was  in  a delirium  of 
happiness,  and  her  clear,  sweet  voice  came  ringing  upon  the 
air  as  often  as  she  heard  the  tones  of  a favorite  bird,  or 
found  some  strange  and  lovely  flower  in  her  frolic  wander- 
ings. The  unbroken  and  almost  supernatural  stillness  of 
the  day  continued  until  noon.  Then,  for  the  flrst  time,  the 
indications  of  an  approaching  tempest  became  manifest. 

8.  On  the  summit  of  a mountain,  at  the  distance  of 
about  a mile,  Ihe  folds  of  a dark  cloud  became  suddenly 
visible,  and,  at  the  same  instant,  a hollow  roar  came  down 
upon  the  winds,  as  if  it  had  been  llic  sound  of  waves  in  a 
rocky  cavern.  The  cloud  rolled  out  like  a banner  unfolded 
upon  the  air,  but  still  the  atmosphere  was  as  calm,  and  the 
leaves  as  motionless  as  before ; and  there  was  not  even  a 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


80 


quiver  among  the  sleeping  waters,  to  tell  of  the  coming  hur- 
ricane. 

9.  To  escape  the  tempest  was  impossible.  As  the  only 
resort,  we  fled  to  an  oak  that  stood  at  the  foot  of  a tall  and 
ragged  precipice.  Here  we  stood,  and  gazed  almost  breath- 
lessly upon  the  clouds,  marshaling  themselves  like  bloody 
giants  in  the  sky.  The  thunder  was  not  frequent,  but  every 
burst  was  so  fearful',  that  the  young  creature  who  stood  by 
me,  shut  her  eyes  convulsively,  and  clung  with  desperate 
strength  to  my  arm,  and  shrieked  as  if  her  heart  would 
break. 

10.  A few  minutes,  and  the  storm  was  upon  us.  During 
the  height  of  its  fury,  the  little  girl  lifted  her  finger  toward 
the  precipice  that  towered  over  us.  I looked,  and  saw 
there  a purple  light.  And  the  next  moment,  the  clouds 
opened,  the  rocks  tottered  to  their  foundations,  a roar  like 
the  groan  of  the  universe  filled  the  air,  and  I felt  myself 
blinded,  and  thrown,  I know  not  whither.  How  long  I 
remained  insensible,  I can  not  tell' ; but  when  consciousness 
returned,  the  violence  of  the  tempest  was  abating,  the  roar 
of  the  winds  was  dying  in  the  tree-tops,  and  the  deep 
tones  of  thunder-clouds  came  in  fainter  murmurs  from  the 
eastern  hills. 

11.  I arose,  and  looked  tremblingly  and  almost  deliriously 
around.  She  was  there,  the  dear  idol  of  my  infant  love, 
stretched  out  upon  the  green  earth.  After  a moment  of 
irresolution,  I went  up  and  looked  upon  her.  The  handker- 
chief upon  her  neck  was  slightly  rent,  and  a single  dark 
spot  upon  her  bosom  told  where  the  pathway  of  death  had 
been.  At  first,  I clasped  her  to  my  breast  with  a cry  of 
agony,  and  then  laid  her  down,  and  gazed  upon  her  face 
almost  with  feelings  of  calmness. 

12.  Her  bright,  disheveled  hair  clustered  sweetly  around 
her  brow;  the  look  of  terror  had  faded  from  her  lips,  and 
infant  smiles  were  pictured  there ; the  rose  tinge  upon  her 
cheeks  was  lovely  as  in  life;  and,  as  I pressed  them  to  my 
own,  the  fountains  of  tears  were  opened,  and  I wept  as  if 
my  heart  were  waters.  I have  but  a dim  recollection  of 
what  followed.  I only  know,  that  1 remained  weeping  and 
motionless  till  the  coming  twilight,  and  T was  taken  tenderly 


90 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


by  the  hand,  and  led  away  where  I saw  the  countenances  of 
parents  and  sister. 

13.  Many  years  have  gone  by  on  the  wings  of  light  and 
shadow,  but  the  scenes  I have  portrayed  still  come  over  me, 
at  tim^s,  with  terrible  distinctness.  The  oak  yet  stands  at  the 
base  of  the  precipice,  but  its  limbs  are  black  and  dead,  and  the 
hollow  trunk  looking  upward  to  the  sky,  as  if  “ calling  to  the 
clouds  for  drink,”  is  an  emblem  of  rapid  and  noiseless  decay. 

14.  A year  ago,  I visited  the  spot,  and  the  thought  of  by- 
gone years  came  mournfully  back  to  me.  I thought  of  the 
little  innocent  being  who  fell  by  my  side,  like  some  beautiful 
tree  of  spring,  rent  up  by  the  whirlwind  in  the  midst  of 
blossoming.  But  I remembered^  and  0,  there  was  joy  in  the 
memory,  that  she  had  gone  where  no  lightnings  slumber  in 
the  folds  of  the  rainbow  cloud,  and  where  the  sun-lit  waters 
are  broken  only  by  the  storm-breath  of  Omnipotence. 


XVIL— THE  ARTIST  SURPRISED. 

1.  It  may  not  be  known  to  all  the  admirers  of  the  genius 
of  Albrecht  Dtirer,  that  that  famous  engraver  was  endowed 
with  a “better  half,”  so  peevish  in  temper,  that  she  was  the 
torment  not  only  of  his  own  life,  but  also  of  his  pupils  and 
domestics.  Some  of  the  former  were  cunning  enough  to 
purchase  peace  for  themselves  by  conciliating  the  common 
tyrant,  but  woe  to  those  unwilling  or  unaole  to  offer  aught  in 
propitiation.  Even  the  wiser  ones  were  spared  only  by 
having  their  offenses  visited  upon  a scape-goat. 

2.  This  unfortunate  individual  was  Samuel  Duhobret,  a 
disciple  whom  Diirer  had  admitted  into  his  school  out  of 
charity.  He  was  employed  in  painting  signs  and  the  coarser 
tapestry  then  used  in  Grerniany.  He  was  about  forty  years 
of  age,  little,  ugly,  and  humpbacked;  he  was  the  butt  of 
every  ill  joke  among  his  fellow  disciples,  and  was  picked  out 
as  an  object  of  especial  dislike  by  Madailie  Durer.  But  he 
bore  all  with  patience,  and  ate,  without  complaiht,  the  scanty 
crusts  given  him  every  day  for  dinner,  while  his  companions 
often  fared  sumptuously. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


91 


3.  Poor  Samuel  had  not  a spice  of  envy  or  malice  in  his 
heart.  He  would,  at  any  time,  have  toiled  half  the  night  to 
assist  or  serve  those  who  were  wont  oftenest  to  laugh  at  him, 
or  abuse  him  loudest  for  his  stupidity.  True,  he  had  not  the 
qualities  of  sociarl  humor  or  wit,  but  he  was  an  example  of 
indefatigable  industry.  He  came  to  his  studies  every  morn- 
ing at  day-break,  and  remained  at  work  until  sunset.  Then 
he  retired  into  his  lonely  chamber,  and  wrought  for  his 
own  amusement. 

4.  Duhobret  labored  three  years  in  this  way,  giving  him- 
self no  time  for  exercise  or  recreation.  He  said  nothing  to  a 
single  human  being  of  the  paintings  be  had  produced  in  the 
solitude  of  his  cell,  by  the  light  of  his  lamp.  But  his  bodily 
energies  wasted  and  declined  under  incessant  toil.  There 
were  none  sufficiently  interested  in  the  poor  artist,  to  mark 
the  feverish  hue  of  his  wrinkled  cheek,  or  the  increasing 
attenuation  of  his  misshapen  frame. 

5.  None  observed  that  the  uninviting  pittance  set  aside 
for  his  midday  repast,  remained  for  several  days  untouched. 
Samuel  made  his  appearance  regularly  as  ever,  and  bore, 
with  the  same  meekness,  the  gibes  of  his  fellow-pupils,  or 
the  taunts  of  Madame  Biirer,  and  worked  with  the  same  un- 
tiring assiduity,  though  his  hands  would  sometimes  tremble, 
and  his  eyes  become  suffused,  a weakness  probably  owing  to 
the  excessive  use  he  had  made  of  them. 

6.  One  morning,  Duhobret  was  missing  at  the  scene  of 
his  daily  labors.  His  absence  created  much  remark,  and 
many' were  the  jokes  passed  upon  the  occasion.  One  sur- 
mised this,  and  another  that,  as  the  cause  of  the  phenom- 
enon; and  it  was  finally  agreed  that  the  poor  fellow  must 
have  worked  himself  into  an  absolute  skeleton,  and  taken  his 
final  stand  in  the  glass  frame  of  some  apothecary,  or  been 
blown  away  by  a puff  of  wind,  while  his  door  happened  to 
stand  open.  No  one  thought  of  going  to  his  lodgings  to 
look  after  him  or  his  remains. 

7.  Meanwhile,  the  object  of  their  mirth  was  tossing  on  a 
bed  of  sickness.  Disease,  which  had  been  slowly  sapping 
the  foundations  of  his  strength,  burned  in  every  vein ; his 
eyes  rolled  and  flashed  in  delirium;  his  lips,  usually  so 
silent,  muttered  wild  and  incoherent  words.  In  his  days  of 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


healtli,  poor  Duhobret  had  his  dreams,  as  all  artists,  rich  or 
poor,  will  sometimes  have.  He  had  thought  that  the  fruit 
of  many  years’  labor,  disposed  of  to  advantage,  might  pro- 
cure him  enough  to  live,  in  an  economical  way,  for  the  rest 
of  his  life.  He  never  anticipated  fame  or  fortune ; the  height 
of  his  ambition  or  hope  was,  to  possess  a tenement  large 
enough  to  shelter  him  from  the  inclemencies  of  the  weather, 
with  means  enough  to  purchase  one  comfortable  meal  per 
day. 

8.  Now,  alas!  however,  even  that  one  hope  had  deserted 
him.  He  thought  himself  dying,  and  thought  it  hard  to  die 
without  one  to  look  kindly  upon  him,  without  the  words  of 
comfort  that  might  soothe  his  passage  to  another  world.  He 
fancied  his  bed  surrounded  by  fiendish-  faces,  grinning  at 
his  sufferings,  and  taunting  his  inability  to  summon  power 
to  disperse  them.  At  length  the  apparitions  faded  away, 
and  the  patient  sunk  into  an  exhausted  slumber. 

9.  He  awoke  unrefreshed ; it  was  the  fifth  day  he  had 
lain  there  neglected.  His  mouth  was  parched;  he  turned 
over,  and  feebly  stretched  out  his  hand  toward  the  earthen 
pitcher,  from  which,  since  the  first  day  of  his  illness,  he  had 
quenched  his  thirst.  Alas ! it  was  empty ! Samuel  lay  for 
a few  moments  thinking  what  he  should  do.  He  knew  he 
must  die  of  want,  if  he  remained  there  alone ; but  to  whom 
could  he  apply  for  aid  in  procuring  sustenance? 

10.  An  idea  seemed,  at  last,  to  strike  him.  He  arose 
slowly,  and  with  difiiculty,  from  the  bed,  went  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  and  took  up  the  picture  he  had  painted 
last.  He  resolved  to  carry  it  to  the  shop  of  a salesman,  and 
hoped  to  obtain  for  it  sufiicient  to  furnish  him  with  the 
necessaries  of  life  for  a week  longer.  Despair  lent  him 
strength  to  walk,  and  to  carry  his  burden.  On  his  way,  he 
passed  a house,  about  which  there  was  a crowd.  He  drew 
nigh;  asked  what  was  going  on,  and  received  for  an  answer, 
that  there  was  to  be  a sale  of  many  specimens  of  art,  col- 
lected by  an  amateur  in  the  course  of  thirty  years.  It  has 
often  happened  that  collections  made  Avith  infinite  pains  by 
the  proprietor,  were  sold  without  mercy  or  discrimination 
after  his  death. 

11.  Something,  whispenid  to  the  weary  Duhobret,  that  here 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


93 


would  be  the  market  for  Ills  picture.  It  was  a long  way  yet 
to  the  house  of  the  picture-dealer,  and  he  made  up  his  mind 
at  once.  He  worked  his  way  through  the  crowd,  dragged 
himself  up  the  steps,  and,  after  many  inquiries,  found  the 
auctioneer.  That  personage  was  a busy,  important-like  man, 
with  a handful  of  papers;  he  was  inclined  to  notice  some- 
what roughly  the  interruption  of  the  lean,  sallow  hunch- 
back, imploring  as  were  his  gesture  and  language. 

12.  ‘‘What  do  you  call  your  picture?”  at  length,  said  he 
carefully  looking  at  it.  “It  is  a view  of  the  Abbey  of  New- 
bourg,  with  its  village,  and  the  surrounding  landscape,” 
replied  the  eager  and  trembling  artist. 

18.  The  auctioneer  again  scanned  it  contemptuously,  and 
asked  what  it  was  worth.  “Oh,  that  is  what  you  please; 
whatever  it  will  bring,”  answered  Huhobret.  “Hem!  it  is 
too  odd  to  please,  I should  think;  I can  promise  you  no 
more  than  three  thalers.” 

14.  Poor  Samuel  sighed  deeply.  He  had  spent  on  that 
piece  the  nights  of  many  months.  But  he  was  starving 
now;  and  the, pitiful  sum  offered  would  give  bread  for  a few 
days.  He  nodded  his  head  to  the  auctioneer,  and  retiring 
took  his  seat  in  a corner. 

15.  The  sale  began.  After  some  paintings  and  engravings 
had  been  disposed  of,  SamueTs  was  exhibited.  “Who  bids 
at  three  thalers?  Who  bids?”  was  the  cry.  Huhobret  list- 
ened eagerly^  but  none  answered.  “Will  it  find  a pur- 
chaser?” said  he,  despondingly,  to  himself.  Still  there  was 
a dead  silence.  He  dared  not  look  up ; for  it  seemed  to  him 
that  all  the  people  were  laughing  at  the  folly  of  the  artist, 
who  could  be  insane  enough  to  offer  so  worthless  a piece  at  a 
public  sale. 

16.  “What  will  become  of  me?”  was  his  mental  inquiry. 
“That  work  is  certainly  my  best;”  and  he  ventured  to  steal 
another  glance.  “ Hoes  it  not  seem  that  the  wind  actually 
stirs  those  boughs  and  moves  those  leaves ! How  trans- 
parent is  the  water!  What  life  breathes  in  the  animals  that 
quench  their  thirst  at  that  spring ! How  that  steeple  shines  ! 
How  beautiful  are  those  clustering  trees  !”  This  was  the  last 
expiring  throb  of  an  artist’s  vanity.  The  ominous  silence  con- 
tinued, and  Samuel,  sick  at  heart,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

8 


94 


SIXTH  READER. 


17.  “Twenty-one  thalers!”  murmured  a faint  voice,  just 
as  the  auctioneer  was  about  to  knock  down  the  picture. 
The  stupefied  painter  gave  a start  oif  joy.  He  raised  his 
head  and  looked  to  see  from  whose  lips  those  blessed  words 
had  come.  It  was  the  picture-dealer,  to  whom  he  had  first 
thought  of  applying. 

18.  “Fifty  thalers,”  cried  a sonorous  voice.  This  time  a 
tall  man  in  black  was  the  speaker.  There  was  a silence  of 
hushed  expectation.  “One  hundred  thalers,”  at  length 
thundered  the  picture-dealer. 

19.  “Three  hundred!”  “Five  hundred!”  “One  thou- 
sand!” Another  profound  silence,  and  the  crowd  pressed 
around  the  two  opponents,  who  stood  opposite  each  other 
with  eager  and  angry  looks. 

20.  “Two  thousand  thalers!”  cried  the  picture-dealer, 
and  glanced  around  him  triumphantly,  when  he  saw  his 
adversary  hesitate.  “ Ten  thousand  ! ” vociferated  the  tall 
man,  his  face  crimson  with  rage,  and  his  hands  clinched  con- 
vulsively. The  dealer  grew  paler;  his  frame  shook  with 
agitation ; he  made  two  or  three  efforts,  and  at  last  cried  out 
“ Twenty  thousand  ! ” 

21.  His  tall  opponent  was  not  to  be  vanquished.  He  bid 
forty  thousand.  The  dealer  stopped;  the  other  laughed  a 
low  laugh  of  insolent  triumph,  and  a murmur  of  admiration 
was  heard  in  the  crowd.  It  was  too  much  for  the  dealer;  he 
felt  his  peace  was  at  stake.  “Fifty  thousand!”  exclaimed 
he  in  desperation.  It  was  the  tall  man’s  turn  to  hesitate. 
Again  the  whole  crowd  were  breathless.  At  length,  tossing 
his  arms  in  defiance,  he  shouted  “One  hundred  thousand!’^ 
The  crest-fallen  picture-dealer  withdrew;  the  tall  man  vic- 
toriously bore  away  the  prize. 

22.  How  was  it,  meanwhile,  with  Duhobret,  while  this  ex- 
citing scene  was  going  on?  He  was  hardly  master  of  his 
senses.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  repeatedly,  and  murmured  to 
himself,  “After  such  a dream,  my  misery  will  seem  more 
cruel!”  When  the  contest  ceased,  he  rose  up  bewildered, 
and  went  about  asking  first  one,  then  another,  the  price  of 
fhe  picture  just  sold.  It  seemed  that  his  apprehension  could 
not  at  once  be  enlarged  to  so  vast  a conception. 

23.  The  possessor  was  proceeding  homeward,  when  a de« 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


95 


crepit,  lame,  and  humpbacked  invalid,  tottering  along  by  the 
aid  of  a stick,  presented  himself  before  him.  He  threw  him 
a piece  of  money,  and  waved  his  hand  as  dispensing  with  his 
thanks.  May  it  please  your  honor,”  said  the  supposed  beg- 
gar, “ I am  the  painter  of  that  picture ! ” and  again  he  rubbed 
his  eyes. 

24.  The  tall  man  was  Count  Dunkelsback,  one  of  the 
richest  noblemen  in  Grermany.  He  stopped,  took  out  his 
pocket-book,  tore  out  a leaf,  and  wrote  on  it  a few  lines. 

Take  it,  friend,”  said  he;  “it  is  a check  for  your  money. 
Adieu.” 

25.  Duhobret  finally  persuaded  himself  that  it  was  not  a 
dream.  He  became  the  master  of  a castle,  sold  it,  and 
resolved  to  live  luxuriously  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  to 
cultivate  painting  as  a pastime.  But,  alas,  for  the  vanity  of 
human  expectation  ! He  had  borne  privation  and  toil ; pros- 
perity was  too  much  for  him,  as  was  proved  soon  after,  when 
an  indigestion  carried  him  off.  His  picture  remained  long 
in  the  cabinet  of  Count  Dunkelsback,  and  afterward  passed 
into  the  possession  of  the  King  of  Bavaria. 


XVIII.— THE  CHINESE  PRISONER. 

1.  A CERTAIN  emperor  of  China,  on  his  accession  to  the 
throne  of  his  ancestors,  commanded  a general  release  of  all 
those  who  were  confined  in  prison  for  debt.  Among  that 
number  was  an  old  man,  who  had  fallen  an  early  victim  to 
adversity',  and  whose  days  of  imprisonment,  reckoned  by  the 
notches  he  had  cut  on  the  door  of  his  gloomy  cell,  expressed 
the  annual  circuit  of  more  than  fifty  suns. 

2.  With  trembling  hands  and  faltering  steps,  he  departed 
from  his  mansion  of  sorrow' ; his  eyes  were  dazzled  with  the 
splendor  of  light',  and  the  face  of  nature  presented  to  his 
view  a perfect  paradise.  The  jail  in  which  he  had  been  im- 
prisoned, stood  at  some  distance  from  Pekin',  and  to  that 
city  he  directed  his  course,  impatient  to  enjoy  the  caresses  of 
his  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends. 

3.  Having  with  difiiculty  found  his  way  to  the  street  in 


96 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


which  his  decent  mansion  had  formerly  stood,  his  heart  be- 
came more  and  more  elated  at  every  step  he  advanced.  With 
joy  he  proceeded,  looking  eagerly  around;  but  he  observed 
few  of  the  objects  with  which  he  had  been  formerly  con- 
versant. A magnificent  edifice  was  erected  on  the  site  of  the 
house  which  he  had  inhabited' ; the  dwellings  of  his  neighbors 
had  assumed  a new  form';  and  he  beheld  not  a single  face 
of  which  he  had  the  least  remembrance. 

4.  An  aged  beggar,  who,  with  trembling  limbs,  stood  at 
the  gate  of  an  ancient  portico,  from  which  he  had  been  thrust 
by  the  insolent  domestic  who  guarded  it,  struck  his  attention. 
He  stopped,  therefore,  to  give  him  a small  pittance  out  of  the 
amount  of  the  bounty  with  which  he  had  been  supplied  by 
the  emperor',  and  received,  in  return,  the  sad  tidings,  that 
his  wife  had  fallen  a lingering  sacrifice  to  penury  and  sorrow' ; 
that  his  children  were  gone  to  seek  their  fortunes  in  distant 
or  unknown  climes' ; and  that  the  grave  contained  his  nearest 
and  most  valued  friends. 

5.  Overwhelmed  with  anguish,  he  hastened  to  the  palace 
of  his  sovereign,  into  whose  presence  his  hoary  locks  and 
mournful  visage  soon  obtained  admission' ; and,  casting  him- 
self at  the  feet  of  the  emperor,  “Great  Prince',”  he  cried, 
“ send  me  back  to  that  prison  from  which  mistaken  mercy  has 
delivered'  me ! I have  survived  my  family  and  friends',  and 
even  in  the  midst  of  this  populous  city,  I find  myself  in  a 
dreary  solitude.  The  cell  of  my  dungeon  protected  me  from 
the  gazers  at  my  wretchedness';  and  while  secluded  from 
society,  I was  the  less  sensible  of  the  loss  of  its  enjoyments. 
I am  now^  tortured  with  the  view  of  pleasure  in  which  I can 
not  participate';  and  die  with  thirst,  though  streams  of  de- 
light surround'  me.” 


XIX.— A HIGHLAND  FEUD. 

Highlands;  the  northern  part  of  Scotland,  so  called  because  of  the 
mountainous  character  of  that  region. 

i.  A DEADLY  feud  subsisted,  almost  from  time  immemo- 
rial, between  the  families  of  Maepherson  of  Bendearg,  and 
Grant  of  Cairn',  and  was  handed  down  unimpaired  even  to 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


97 


the  close  of  the  last  century'.  In  the  earlier  times,  the 
warlike  chiefs  of  these  names  found  frequent  opportunities 
of  testifying  their  mutual  animosity';  and  few  inheritors  of 
the  fatal  quarrel  left  the  world,  without  having  moistened  it 
with  the  blood  of  some  of  their  hereditary  enemies.  But, 
in  our  own  day,  the  progress  of  civilization,  which  had 
reached  even  these  wild  countries,  the  heart  of  the  North 
Highlands,  although  it  could  not  extinguish  entirely  the 
transmitted  spirit  of  revenge,  at  least  kept  it  within  safe 
bounds';  and  the  feud  of  Macpherson  and  Grrant  threatened, 
in  the  course  of  another  generation,  to  die  entirely  away. 

2.  It  was  not,  however,  without  some  ebullitions  of 
ancient  fierceness,  that  the  flame,  which  had  burned  for 
so  many  centuries,  seemed  about  to  expire.  Once,  at  a 
meeting  of  country  gentlemen,  on  a question  of  privilege 
arising,  Bendearg  took  occasion  to  throw  out  some  taunts, 
aimed  at  his  hereditary  foe,  which  the  fiery  Grrant  immedi- 
ately received  as  a signal  of  defiance,  and  a challenge'  was 
the  consequence.  The  sherifi*  of  the  county,  however,  having 
got  intimation  of  the  affair,  put  both  parties  under  arrest'; 
till  at  length,  by  the  persuasion  of  their  friends, — not  friends 
hy  bloody — and  the  representations  of  the  magistrate,  they 
shook  hands,  and  each  pledged"^  himself  to  forget  the  ancient 
feud  of  his  family. 

3.  This  occurrence,  at  the  time,  was  the  object  of  much 
interest  in  the  country-side';  the  rather,  that  if  seemed  to 
give  the  lie  to  the  prophecies,  of  which  every  Highland  fam- 
ily has  an  ample  stock  in  its  traditionary  chronicles,  and 
which  expressly  predicted,  that  the  enmity  of  Cairn  and 
Bendearg  should  not  be  quenched  but  in  blood.  On  the 
seemingly  cross-grained  circumstance  of  their  reconciliation, 
some  of  the  young  men  were  seen  to  shake  their  heads,  as 
they  reflected  on  the  faith  and  tales  of  their  ancestors';  but 
the  gray-headed  seers  shook  theirs  still  more  wisely^y  and 
answered  with  the  motto  of  a noble  house', — “ I bide  mv 
time.” 

4.  There  is  a narrow  pass  between  the  mountains,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Bendearg,  well  known  to  the  traveler  who 
adventures  into  these  wilds,  in  quest  of  the  savage  sublimi- 
ties of  nature'.  At  a little  distance,  it  has  the  appearance 


98 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


of  an  immense  artificial  bridge  thrown  over  a tremendous 
chasm,  but,  on  nearer  approach,  is  seen  to  be  a wall  of 
nature’s  own  masonry,  formed  of  vast  and  rugged  bodies  of 
solid  rock,  piled  on  each  other  as  if  in  the  giant  sport  of 
the  architect.  Its  sides  are,  in  some  places,  covered  with 
trees  of  a considerable  size';  and  the  passenger,  who  has  a 
head  steady  enough  to  look  down  the  precipice,  may  see  the 
aeries  of  birds  of  prey  beneath  his  feet.  The  path  across  is 
so  narrow,  that  it  can  not  admit  of  two  persons  passing 
along-side';  and,  indeed,  none  but  natives,  accustomed  to  the 
scene  from  infancy,  would  attempt  the  dangerous  route  at 
all',  though  it  saves  a circuit  of  three  miles.  Yet  it  some- 
times happens,  that  two  travelers  meet  in  the  middle,  owing 
to  the  curve  formed  by  the  pass  preventing  a view  from 
either  side',  and,  when  this  is  the  case,  one  is  obliged  to 
lie  down,  while  the  other  crawls  over  his  body. 

5.  One  day,  shortly  after  the  incident  we  have  men- 
tioned, a Highlander  was  walking  fearlessly  along  the  pass; 
sometimes  bending  over  to  watch  the  flight  of  wild  birds  that 
built  below',  and  sometimes  pushing  a fragment  from  the 
top,  to  see  it  dashed  against  the  uneven  sides,  and  bounding 
from  rock  to  rock,  until  the  echo  of  its  rebound  died  in  faint 
and  hollow  murmurs  at  the  bottom.  When  he  had  gained 
the  highest  part  of  the  arch,  he  observed  another  coming 
leisurely  up  on  the  opposite'  side,  and  being  himself  of  the 
patrician  order,  called  out  to  him  to  halt  and  lie  down.  The 
person,  however,  disregarded  the  command',  and  the  High- 
landers met,  face  to  face,  on  the  summit. 

6.  They  were  Grant  and  Macpherson' ; the  two  hereditary 
enemies,  who  would  have  gloried  and  rejoiced  in  mortal 
strife  with  each  other,  on  a hill-side.  They  turned  deadly 
pale  at  this  fatal  rencounter.  “I  was  first  at  the  top,”  said 
Macpherson,  “ and  called  out  first.  Lie  down',  that  I may 
pass  over  in  peace'.”  “When  the  Grant  prostrates  himself 
before  Macpherson,”  answered  the  other,  “it  must  be  with 
the  sword  driven  through  his  body.”  “Turn  back',  then,” 
said  Macpherson,  “and  repass  as  you  came.”  “Go  back 
yourself',  if  you  like  it,”  replied  Grant;  “I  will  not  be  th.^ 
first  of  my  name  to  turn  before  the  Macpherson.” 

7.  This  was  their  short  conference',  and  the  result  ex 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


99 


actly  as  each  had  anticipated.  They  then  threw  their  bon- 
nets over  the  precipice',  and  advanced,  with  a slow  and 
cautious  pace,  closer  to  each  other.  They  were  both  un- 
armed'; and,  stretching  their  limbs  like  men  preparing  for 
a desperate  struggle,  they  planted  their  feet  firmly  on  the 
ground,  compressed  their  lips,  knit  their  dark  brows,  and, 
fixing  fierce  and  watchful  eyes  on  each  other,  stood  there, 
prepared  for  the  onset'. 

8.  They  both  grappled  at  the  same  moment' ; but  being  of 
equal  strength,  were  unable  for  some  time  to  shift  each  other’s 
position,  and  remained  standing  fixed  on  a rock  with  sup- 
pressed breath,  and  muscles  strained  to  the  “ top  of  their 
bent,”  like  statues  carved  out  of  the  solid  stone.  At  length, 
Macpherson,  suddenly  removing  his  right  foot,  so  as  to  give 
him  a greater  purchase,  stooped  his  body,  and  bent  his 
enemy  down  with  him  by  main  strength,  till  they  both 
leaned  over  the  precipice,  looking  downward  into  the  ter- 
rible abyss.  The  contest  was  as  yet  doubtful',  for  Grant 
had  placed  his  foot  firmly  on  an  elevation  at  the  brink, 
and  had  equal  command  of  his  enemy' ; but,  at  this  mo- 
ment, Macpherson  sank  slowly  and  firmly  on  his  knee', 
and  while  Grant  suddenly  started  back,  stooping  to  take  the 
supposed  advantage,  he  whirled  him  over  his  head  into  the 
gulf  below.  Macpherson  himself  fell  backward,  his  body 
hanging  partly  over  the  rock';  a fragment  gave  way  be- 
neath him,  and  he  sank  further,  till,  catching  with  a des- 
perate effort  at  the  solid  stone  above,  he  regained  his  footing. 

9.  There  was  a pause  of  death-like  stillness,  and  the 
bold  heart  of  Macpherson  felt  sick  and  faint.  At  length,  as 
if  compelled  unwillingly  by  some  mysterious  feeling,  he 
looked  clown  over  the  precipice.  Grant  had  caught,  with 
a death-gripe,  by  the  rugged  point  of  a rock' ; his  enemy 
was  almost  within  his  reach ! his  face  was  turned  upward, 
and  there  were  in  it  horror  and  despair';  but  he  uttered  no 
word  or  cry.  The  next  moment,  he  loosed  his  hold' ; and  the 
next,  his  brains  were  dashed  out  before  the  eyes  of  his  heredi- 
tary foe.  The  mangled  body  disappeared  among  the  trees', 
and  its  last  heavy  and  hollow  sound  arose  from  the  bottom. 
Macpherson  returned  home  an  altered  man.  He  purchased  a 
commission  in  the  army,  and  fell  in  the  wars  of  the  Peninsula. 


100 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


XX.— THE  HOUR  OF  PRAYER 
From  Mrs.  Hemans. 

Felicia  Dorothea  Browne  was  born  in  Liverpool,  Eng.,  in  1793,  and 
educated  in  Wales,  that  region  of  mountainous  scenery.  At  the  age  of 
15,  her  first  poems  were  published.  At  19,  she  was  married  to  Captain 
Hemans,  but  the  union  was  unhappy,  and  they  separated.  She  died 
ill  Dublin,  at  the  house  of  her  brother,  in  1835.  Her  poems  are  full  of 
pathos,  tenderness,  and  beauty. 

J.  Child^,  amid  the  flowers  at  play, 

While  the  red  light  fades  away^; 

Mother^,  with  thine  earnest  eye, 

Ever  following  silently^; 

Father^,  by  the  breeze  at  eve 
Called  thy  harvest  work  to  leave^; 

Fray'll  Ere  yet  the  dark  hours  be, 

Lift  the  heart,  and  bend  the  knee'^. 

2.  Traveler^,  in  the  stranger’s  land. 

Far  from  thine  own  household  band^; 

Mourner^,  haunted  by  the  tone 

Of  a voice  from  this  world  gone^; 

Captive^,  in  whose  narroAV  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwelF; 

Sailor^,  on  the  darkening  sea^; 

Lift  the  heart,  and  bend  the  kneo 

3.  Warrior^,  that  from  battle  won, 

Breathest  now  at  set  of  suiF; 

Woman^,  o’er  the  lowly  slain 
Weeping  on  his  burial  plain^; 

Ye  that  triumph^,  ye  that  siglF, 

Kindred  by  one  holy  tie^. 

Heaven’s  first  star  alike  ye  see\ 

Lift  the  hearC,  and  bend  the  kneeL 


XXT.— PROSPECTS  OF  THE  CHEROKEES. 

Tn  this  lesson,  the  inflections  belonging  to  interrogative  sentences^ 
may  be  noticed. 

1.  Whither  are  the  Cherokees  to  go'?  What  are  the 
benefits'  of  the  change?  What  system'  has  been  matured 
for  their  security?  What  laws'  for  their  government'? 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


101 


These  questions  are  answered  only  by  gilded  promises  in 
general  terms';  they  are  to  become  enlightened  and  civilized 
husbandmen.  They  now  live  by  the  cultivation  of  the  soil 
and  the  mechanical  arts.  It  is  proposed  to  send  them  from 
their  cotton-fields,  their  farms  and  their  gardens,  to  a dis- 
tant and  unsubdued  wilderness';  to  make  them  tillers  of  the 
earth' ; to  remove  them  from  their  looms,  their  workshops, 
their  printing-press,  their  schools  and  churches,  near  the 
white  settlements,  to  frowning  forests',  surrounded  with 
naked  savages',  that  they  may  become  enlightened  and 
civilized' ! 

2.  We  have  pledged  to  them  our  protection';  and,  in- 
stead of  shielding  them  where  they  now  are,  within  our 
reach,  under  our  own  arm,  we  send  these  natives  of  a south- 
ern clime  to  northern  regions,  among  fierce  and  warlike 
barbarians.  And  what  security  do  we  propose  to  them? 
A new  guaranty ! Who  can  look  an  Indian  in  the  face,  and 
say'  to  him,  “We  and  our  fathers,  for  more  than  forty  years, 
have  made  to  you  the  most  solemn  promises ; we  now  violate 
and  trample  upon  them  all';  but  offer  you  in  their  stead — 
another'  guaranty ! ” 

3.  Will  they  be  in  no  danger  of  an  attack  from  the  primi- 
tive inhabitants  of  the  regions  to  which  they  emigrate'  ? How 
can  it  be  otherwise'?  The  official  documents  show  us  the 
fact,  that  some  of  the  few  who  have  already  gone,  were  in- 
volved in  conflict  with  the  native  tribes,  and  compelled  to  a 
second'  removal. 

4.  How  are  they  to  subsist'?  Has  not  th..t  country  now 
as  great  an  Indian  population  as  it  can  sustain'?  What  has 
become  of  the  original'  occupants?  Have  we  not  already 
caused  accession  to  their  numbers,  and  been  compressing 
them  more  and  more'?  Is  not  the  consequence  inevitable, 
that  some  must  be  stinted  in  the  means  of  subsistence'  ? 
Here  too  wc  have  the  light  of  experience.  By  an  official 
communication  from  Governor  Clark,  the  superintendent  of 
Indian  affairs,  wc  learn  that  the  most  powerful  tribes,. west  of 
the  Mississippi,  arc,  every  year,  so  distressed  by  famine,  that 
many  die  for  want  of  food.  The  scenes  of  their  suffering  are 
hardly  exceeded  by  the  sieges  of  Jerusalem  and  Samaria. 
There  might  be  seen  the  miserable  mother,  in  all  the  tortures 

9 


102 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


wMcli  hunger  could  inflict,  giving  her  last  morsel  for  the 
sustenance  of  her  child,  and  then  fainting,  sinking,  and 
actually  dying'  of  starvation ! And  the  orphan ! no  one 
can  spare  it"'  food':  it  is  put  alive'  into  the  grave  of  the 
parent,  which  thus  closes  over  the  quick  and  the  dead.  And 
this  is  not  a solitary'  instance  only,  “ The  living  child  is 
often'  buried  with  the  dead  mother.” 

5.  I know,  to  what  I expose'  myself.  To  feel  any 
solicitude  for  the  fate  of  the  Indians,  may  be  ridiculed  as 
false  philanthropy  and  morbid  sensibility.  Others  may 
boldly  say,  “Their  blood  be  upon  us',”  and  sneer  at  scru- 
ples, as  weakness  unbecoming  the  stern  character  of  a 
politician.  If,  in  order  to  become  a politician,  it  be  nec- 
essary to  divest  the  mind  of  the  principles  of  good  faith 
and  moral  obligation,  and  harden  the  heart  against  every 
touch  of  humanity,  I confess  that  I am  not — and  by  the 
blessing  of  heaven,  will  never  be — a politician. 

6.  We  can  not  wholly  silence  the  monitor  within  us. 
It  may  not  be  heard  amid  the  clashing  of  the  arena';  in  the 
tempest  and  convulsions  of  political  contentions';  but  its 
still  small  voice  will  speak  to  us,  when  we  meditate  alone  at 
even-tide';  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night';  when  we  lie 
down',  and  when  we  rise  up'  from  a solitary  pillow ; and  in 
that  dread  hour,  when, — “ not  what  we  have  done  for  our- 
selves'^ but  what  we  have  done  for  others'" will  be  our  joy 
and  strength';  when,  to  have  secured,  even  to  a poor  and 
despised  Lidiari"^  a spot  of  earth  upon  which  to  rest  his 
aching  head' ; to  have  given  him  but  a cup  of  cold  water^  in 
charity',  will  be  a greater  treasure,  than  to  have  been  the 
conquerors  of  kingdoms,  and  lived  in  luxury  upon  the  spoils. 

Remark. — It  will  be  observed  that  the  words  “Indian”  and  “water” 
in  the  last  paragraph,  receive  the  falling  inflection  as  a mark  of 
emphasis.  There  is  also,  in  the  same  paragraph,  an  example  of  the 
inflections  belonging  to  a series  of  members,  and  also  to  antithesiSj 
which  subjects  will  be  more  particularly  noticed  hereafter. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


103 


XXIL— A POLITICAL  PAUSE. 

From  the  Speeches  of  Fox. 

Fox  was  a celebrated  English  statesman.  This  is  an  extract  from 
a speech  delivered  during  a truce  in  the  war  between  England  and 
France. 

In  this  lesson,  the  influence  of  a negative  in  determining  the  rising 
inflection,  is  particularly  noticeable. 

1.  “But  we  must  pause',’’  says  the  honorable  gentleman. 
What' ! must  the  bowels  of  Great  Britain  be  torn  out',  her 
best  blood  spilt',  her  treasures  wasted',  that  you  may  make 
an  experiment'?  Put  yourselves', — 0!  that  you  ivoiild  put 
yourselves  on  the  field  of  battle',  and  learn  to  judge  of  the 
sort  of  horrors  you  excite’.  In  former'  wars,  a man  might, 
at  least,  have  some'  feeling,  some'  interest,  that  served  to 
balance  in  his  mind  the  impressions  which  a scene  of  carnage 
and  death  must  inflict'. 

2.  But  if  a man  were  present  now  at  the  field  of  slaughter, 
and  were  to  inquire  for  what  they  were  fighting', — “Fight- 
ing'!”* would  be  the  answer';  “they  are  not  fighting' ; they 
are  pausing^ “Why  is  that  man  expiring'?  Why  is  that 
other  writhing  with  agony'  ? What  means  this  implacable 
fury'?”  The  answer  must  be,  “You  are  quite  wrong,  sir, 
you  deceive"  yourself, — they  are  not  fighting\ — do  not  dis- 
turb' them, — they  are  merely  pausing'  1 This  man  is  not 
expiring  with  agony', — that  man  is  not  dead', — he  is  only 
pausing' ! Bless  you,  sir,  they  are  not  angry'  with  one 
another ; they  have  now  no  cause  of  quarrel ; but  their 
country  thinks  that  there  should  he  a pause".  All  that  you 
see  is  nothing  like  fighting', — there  is  no  harm',  nor  cruelty', 
nor  bloodshed'  in  it;  it  is  nothing  more  than  a political 
'pause'"!  It  is  merely  to  try  an  experiment — to  see  whether 
Bonaparte  will  not  behave  himself  better'  than  heretofore ; 
and,  in  the  mean  time,  we  have  agreed  to  a pause!".,  in  pure 
friendship ! ” 

3.  And  is  this  the  way  that  you  are  to  show  yourselves 
the  advocates  of  order'?  You  take  up  a system  calculated 
to  uncivilize  the  world',  to  destroy  order',  to  trample  on 


- Rule  VIII. 


104 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


religion',  to  stifle  in  the  heart,  not  merely  the  generosity  of 
noble  sentiment',  but  the  afiections  of  social  nature;  and  in 
the  prosecution  of  this  system,  you  spread  terror  and  devas- 
tation all  around'  you. 

Remark.— The  words  “pause”  and  “pausing”  may^  perhaps,  with 
equal  propriety,  receive  the  falling  circumflex. 


XXITI.— SONG  OF  THE  STARS. 

From  Bryant, 

William  Cullfn  Bryant  was  born  in  Cumrnington,  Mass.,  in  1794,  and 
at  an  early  age  gave  evidence  of  great  precocity.  His  rank  as  a poet  is 
among  the  very  first  in  our  country.  In  1825,  he  went  to  New  York, 
where  he  has  since  resided. 

In  the  following  lesson,  the  inflections  characteristic  of  the  imperative 
mood  and  of  exclamations  are  exemplified. 

1.  When  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 

And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 

And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 

Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty  breath. 
And  orbs  of  beauty,  and  spheres  of  flame, 

From  the  void  abyss,  by  myriads  came. 

In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted  away^. 

Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play^; 

2.  Their  silver  voices,  in  chorus  rung, 

And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sung^: 

“AAvay',  away\  through  the  wide,  wide  sky. 

The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie  ; 

Each  sun  with  the  worlds  that  round  him  roll, 

Each  planet  poised  on  her  turning  pole, 

With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white. 

And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

3.  “ For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 

And  the  brightness  o’erflows  unbounded  space'; 

And  we  drink  as  we  go  the  luminous  tides 

In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides'; 

Lo',  yonder  the  living  splendors  play'; 

Away',  on  our  joyous  path,  away' ! 

4.  “Look',  look',  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 

In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star. 

How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass' I 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


105 


How  the  verdure  runs  o’er  each  rolling  mass' ! 

And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 

Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods  lea\i‘- 

5.  ‘‘And  see',  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 

How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower'; 

And  the  morn  and  the  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 

Shift  o’er  the  bright  planets  and  shed  their  dews'; 

And  ’twixt  them  both,  on  the  teeming  ground. 

With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night  goes  round'! 

6.  “Away',  away'!  in  our  blossoming  bowers. 

In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours. 

In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 

See',  love  is  brooding,  and  life  is  born'. 

And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night. 

To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light'. 

7.  “Glide  on',  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres^, 

To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years. 

Glide  on',  in  glory  and  gladness  sent 

To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firmament', 

The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 

To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  our  lamps  are  dim.” 


XXIV.— SELECT  PARAGRAPHS  IN  PROSE. 

In  these  paragraphs,  notice  the  inflections  proper  to  antithesis  and  series. 

THE  FINAL  JUDGMENT. 

Before  that  assembly,  every  man’s  good'  deeds  will  be 
declared,  and  his  most  secret  sins'  disclosed.  As  no  eleva- 
tion of  rank  will  then  give  a title  to  respect,  no  obscurity  of 
condition'  shall  exclude  the  just  from  public  honor,  or 
screen  the  guilty  from  public  shame'.  Opulence  will  find 
itself  no  longer  powerful';  poverty  will  be  no  longer  weak'. 
Birth  will  no  longer  be  distinguished' ; meanness  will  no 
longer  pass  unnoticed'.  The  rich'  and  the  poor  will  indeed 
strangely  mingle  together;  all  the  inequalities  of  the  present 
life  shall  disappear',  and  the  conqueror'  and  his  captive'; 
the  monarch'  and  his  subject';  the  lord'  and  his  vassal'; 
the  statesman'  and  the  peasant' ; the  philosopher'  and  the 
unlettered  hind',  shall  find  their  distinctions  to  have  been 
mere  illusions' 


106 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


DRYDEN  AND  POPE. 

Dryden  knew  more  of  man  in  his  general  nature',  and 
Pope  in  his  local  manners'.  The  notions  of  Dryden  were 
formed  by  comprehensive  speculation',  those  of  Pope  by 
minute  attention'.  There  is  more  dignity'  in  the  knowledge 
of  Dryden',  more  certainty'  in  that  of  Pope'.  The  style 
of  Dryden  is  capricious'  and  varied',  that  of  Pope  cautious' 
and  uniform'.  Dryden  obeys'  the  motions  of  his  own 
mind;  Pope  constrains'  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of  com- 
position. Dryden’s  page  is  a natural  field,  rising  into 
inequalities',  and  diversified  by  the  varied  exuberance  of 
abundant  vegetation';  Pope’s  is  the  velvet  lawn',  shaven  by 
the  scythe,  and  leveled  by  the  roller'.  If  the  flights  of 
Dryden  are  higher'.  Pope  continues  longer'  on  the  wing. 
If,  of  Dryden’s  fire,  the  blaze  is  brighter',  of  Pope’s  the 
heat  is  more  regular'  and  constant'.  Dryden  often  sur- 
passes' expectation,  and  Pope  never  falls  below'  it.  Dryden 
is  read  with  frequent  astonishment',  and  Pope  with  perpetual 
delight'. 

LAS  CASAS  DISSUADING  FROM  BATTLE. 

Is  then  the  dreadful  measure  of  your  cruelty  not  yet 
complete'?  Battle'!  against  whom'?  Against  a king,  in 
whose  mild  bosom  your  atrocious  injuries,  even  yet,  have 
not  excited  hate;  but  who,  insulted'  or  victorious',  still 
sues  for  peace'.  Against  a people',  who  never  wronged  the 
living  being  their  Creator  formed';  a people',  who  received 
you  as  cherished  guests',  with  eager  hospitality  and  confiding 
kindness.  Generously  and  freely  did  they  share  with  you 
their  comforts',  their  treasures',  and  their  homes';  you 
repaid  them  by  fraud',  oppression',  and  dishonor'. 

Pizarro',  hear  me!  Hear'  me,  chieftains'!  And  thou'. 
All-powerful' ! whose  thunder  can  shiver  into  sand  the  ada- 
mantine rock,  whose  lightnings  can  pierce  the  core  of  the 
riven  and  quaking  earth',  0 let  thy  power  give  effect  to  thy 
servant’s  words,  as  thy  spirit  gives  courage  to  his  will ! Do 
not',  I implore  you,  chieftains', — do  not,  I implore^  you, 
renew  the  foul  barbarities  your  insatiate  avarice  has  inflicted 
on  this  wretched,  unoffending  race.  But  hush',  my  sighs'! 
fall  not',  ye  drops  of  useless  sorrow'!  heart-breaking  anguish', 
choke  not  my  utterance. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


107 


XXV.— SELECT  PARAGRAPHS  IN  POETRY. 

THE  PULPIT. 

The  pulpit,  therefore,  (and  I name  it,  filled 
With  solemn  awe,  that  bids  me  well  beware 
With  what  intent  I touch  that  holy  thing^,) — 

The  pulpit^  (when  the  satirist  has,  at  last. 

Strutting  and  vap  ring  in  an  empty  school. 

Spent  all  his  force  and  made  no  proselyte^ — 

T say  the  pulpit^  (in  the  sober  use 
Of  its  legitimate,  peculiar  powers^) 

Must  stand  acknowledged,  while  the  world  shall  stand, 
The  most  important  and  effectual  guard. 

Support,  and  ornament  of  virtue’s  cause. 

There  stands  the  messenger  of  truthV  there  stands 
The  legate  of  the  skies':  his  theme^,  divine^; 

His  office^,  sacred';  his  credentials,  clear. 

By  him,  the  violated  law  speaks  out 

Its  thunders';  and,  by  him,  in  strains  as  sweet 

As  angels  use,  the  Gospel  whispers  peace. 

LIBERTY. 

Meanwhile,  we’ll  sacrifice  to  liberty. 

Remember,  O my  friends^,  the  laws',  the  rights', 

The  generous  plan  jof  power  delivered  down, 

From  age  to  age^,  by  your  renowned  forefathers', 

(So  dearly  bought,  the  price  of  so  much  blood';) 

O let  it  never  perish  in  your  hands. 

But  piously  transmit  it  to  your  children. 

Do  thou,  great  Liberty^,  inspire  our  souls. 

And  make  our  lives  in  thy  possession  happy^. 

Or  our  deaths  glorious  in  thy  just  defense. 

TO-MORROW. 

To-morrow,  didst  thou  say^? 

Methought  I heard  Horatio  say,  to-morrow' : 

Go  to',  I will  not  hear'  of  it;  to-morrow^! 

’T  is  a sharper,  who  stakes  his  penury^ 

Against  thy  plenty';  who  takes  thy  ready  cash, 

And  pa3^s  thee  naught,  but  wishes,  hopes,  and  promises', 
The  currency  of  idiots' ; — injurious  bankrupt, 

That  gulls  the  easy  creditor.  To-morrow^! 

It  is  a period  nowhere  to  be  found 
In  all  the  hoary  registers  of  Time', 

Unless  perchance  in  the  fool’s  calendar. 


108 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Wisdom  disclaims^  the  word,  nor  holds  society 
With  those  who  own^  it.  No^,  my  Horatio^, 

’Tis  Fancy’s'^  child,  and  Folly  is  its  father; 

Wrought  of  such  stuff  as  dreams'  are,  and  as  baseless 
As  the  fantastic  visions  of  the  evening. 

HUMANITY. 

I would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends, 

(Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine  sense. 
Yet  wanting  sensibility',)  the  man 
Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a worm'. 

An  inadvertent  step  may  crash  the  snaiF, 

That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path'; 

But  he  that  has  humanity',  forewarned. 

Will  tread  aside,  and  let  the  reptile  live'. 

The  sum  is  this' : If  man’s  convenience,  health, 

Or  safety  interfere,  his'  rights  and  claims 
Are  paramount,  and  must  extinguish  theirs. 

Else  they  are  a/^',  the  meanest  things  that  are', 

As  free  to  live,  and  to  enjoy  that  life. 

As  God  was  free  to  form  them  at  the  first. 

Who,  in  his  sovereign  wisdom,  made  them  all. 


XXVI.- CHARACTER  OF  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 

From  Phillips. 

This  is  an  extract  from  a speech  delivered  by  Phillips,  an  Irish 
lawyer  of  distinction,  upon  the  character  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  It 
is  a good  exercise  on  the  inflections  appropriate  to  antithesis  and  series. 

Braganza  ; reigning  house  of  Portugal. 

Hapsburg  ; reigning  house  of  Austria. 

De  Stael  ; a celebrated  French  authoress,  the  daughter  of  Necker. 

Kotzebue  ; a distinguished  German  dramatic  poet. 

David;  a French  painter  of  distinction. 

1.  He  is  fallenM  We  may  now  pause  before  that  splendid 
prodigy,  which  towered  among  us  like  some  ancient  ruin, 
whose  power  terrified  the  glance  its  magnificence  attracted. 
Grand,  gloomy',  and  peculiar',  he  sat  upon  the  throne  a 
Bceptered  hermit,  wrapt  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  originality. 
A mind  , bold',  independent',  and  decisive';  a will',  despotic 
in  its  dictates':  an  energy'  that  distanced  expedition';  and 
a conscience',  pliable  to  every  touch  of  interest',  marked  the 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


109 


outlines  of  this  extraodinary  character^  the  most  extraor- 
dinary, perhaps,  that  in  the  annals  of  this  world,  ever  rose', 
or  reigned',  or  fell\ 

2.  Flung  into  life,  in  the  midst  of  a revolution  that  quick- 
ened every  energy  of  a people  who  acknowledged  no  superior', 
he  commenced  his  course,  a stranger  by  birth',  and  a scholar 
by  charity.  With  no  friend  but  his  sword,  and  no  fortune 
but  his  talents',  he  rushed  into  the  list  where  rank,  and  wealth, 
and  genius'  had  arrayed'  themselves,  and  competition  fled 
from  him,  as  from  the  glance  of  destiny. 

3.  He  knew  no  motive'  but  interest';  acknowledged  no 
criterion'  but  success';  he  worshiped  no  God'  but  ambition', 
and  with  an  eastern  devotion',  he  knelt  at  the  shrine  of  his 
idolatry'.  Subsidiary  to  this,  there  was  no  creed'  that  he  did 
not  profess',  there  was  no  opinion'  that  he  did  not  promul- 
gate': in  the  hope  of  a dynasty',  he  upheld  the  crescent;  for 
the  sake  of  a divorce',  he  bowed  before  the  cross';  the  orphan 
of  St.  Louis',  he  became  the  adopted  child  of  the  Republic'; 
and  with  a parricidal  ingratitude,  on  the  ruins  both  of  the 
throne  and  the  tribune',  he  reared  the  throne  of  his  despotism. 
A professed  Catholic',  he  imprisoned  the  Pope';  a pretended 
patriot',  he  impoverished  the  country';  and  in  the  name  of 
Brutus',  he  grasped  without  remorse',  and  wore  without 
shame',  the  diadem  of  the  Caesars. 

4.  The  whole  continent  trembled  at  beholding  the  audacity 
of  his  designs',  and  the  miracle  of  their  execution.  Skepti- 
cism bowed  to  the  prodigies  of  his  performance';  romance 
assumed  the  air  of  history' ; nor  was  there  aught  too  incred- 
ible for  belief',  or  too  fanciful  for  expectation,  when  the 
world  saw  a subaltern  of  Corsica'  waving  his  imperial  flag 
over  her  most  ancient  capitals.  All  the  visions  of  antiquity 
became  commonplace  in  his  contemplation':  kings  were  his 
people' ; nations  were  his  outposts' ; and  he  disposed  of 
courts',  and  crowns',  and  camps',  and  churches',  and  cabi- 
nets', as  if  they  were  the  titular  dignitaries  of  the  chess- 
board'! Amid  all  these  changes',  he  stood  immutable  as 
adamant.  It  mattered  little  whether  in  the  field',  or  in  the 
drawing-room';  with  the  mob',  or  the  levee  ; wearing  the 
Jacobin  bonnet',  or  the  iron  crown';  banishing  a Braganza', 
or  espousing  a Hapsburg';  dictating  peace  on  a raft  to  the 


110 


NEW  SIXTH  HEADER. 


'•zar  of  Russia',  or  contemplating  defeat  at  the  gallows  of 
Leipsic';  lie  was  still  the  same  military  despot\ 

5.  In  this  wonderful  combination,  his  affectations  of  lit- 
erature must  not  be  omitted.  The  jailer  of  the  press',  he 
affected  the  patronage  of  letters' ; the  proscribe!’  of  books',  he 
encouraged  philosophy';  the  persecutor  of  authors',  and  the 
murderer  of  printers',  he  yet  pretended  to  the  protection  of 
learning';  the  assassin  of  Palm',  the  silencer  of  De  Stael', 
and  the  denouncer  of  Kotzebue',  he  was  the  friend  of  David', 
the  benefactor  of  De  Lille',  and  sent  his  academic  prize  to 
the  philosopher  of  England'. 

6.  Such  a medley  of  contradictions',  and,  at  the  same 
time,  such  an  individual  consistency',  were  never  united  in 
the  same  character'.  A royalist',  a republican',  and  an  em- 
peror'; a Mohammedan',  a Catholic',  and  a patron  of  the 
synagogue';  a subaltern  and  a sovereign';  a traitor  and  a 
tyrant;  a Christian  and  an  infidel;  he  was,  through  all  his 
vicissitudes,  the  same  stern,  impatient,  inflexible  original'; 
the  same  mysterious,  incomprehensible  self';  the  man  without 
a model',  and  without  a shadow'. 


XXVII.— HAMLET’S  SOLILOQUY. 

From  Shakspeare. 

William  Shakspeare  was  born  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  in  England,  in 
1564.  He  was  the  son  of  a wool-comber,  and  received  some  education 
at  a grammar  school,  though  little  is  known  with  certainty  of  the  in- 
cidents of  his  life.  He  removed  to  London  when  about  twenty-two 
years  of  age,  and  rose  to  distinction  through  the  success  of  his  im- 
mortal dramas.  He  died  in  1616. 

To  be',  or  noP  to  be:  that  is  the  question': 

Whether  ’tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer' 

The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune', 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a sea  of  troubles, 

And  by  opposing'  end'  them  ? To  die' : to  sleep' ; 

N5  more ; and  by  a sleep'  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache'  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  Tis  a consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.  To  die',  to  sleep'; 

To  sleep':  perchance  to  dream — ay',  there’s  the  rub; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


Ill 


For  iti  that  sleep  of'  death  what  dreams  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coiK 
Must  give  us  pause:  there’s  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life'; 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time', 
The  oppressor’s  wrong',  the  proud  man’s  contumely', 
The  pangs  of  despised  love',  the  law’s  delay'. 

The  insolence  of  office',  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes^, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a bare  bodkin''  ? Who  would  fardels  bear, 

To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a weary  life', 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after'  death, 

The  undiscovered  country'  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveler  returns',  puzzles  the  will 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  the  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all'; 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o’er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought, 

And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment 
With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  awry', 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


XXVIII.— ODE  TO  AN  INFANT  SON. 

From  Thomas  Hood. 

Thomas  Hood  was  born  in  1 798.  He  is  chiefly  distinguished  as  a humor- 
ist and  comic  poet.  He  was  for  a time  the  editor  of  the  New  Monthly  Mag- 
azine. ^^The  Pica  of  the  Midsummer'  Fairies”  Song  of  the  Shirt,”  and 
Whims  and  are  among  his  most  popular  productions.  He 

died  in  1845.  He  ranks  first  among  English  poets  of  his  style 

The  following  lesson  presents  an  example,  in  which  the  matter  in- 
cluded in  the  parentheses,  is  disconnected  with  the  main  subject,  ai.d 
is,  therefore,  subject  to  the  general  principles  of  inflection. 

1.  Thou  happy,  happy  elf'! 

(But  stop',  first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear',) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  myself' ! 

(My  love,  he’s  poking  peas  into  his  ear'!) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite'. 

With  spirits  feather-light, 

Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin'; 

(My  dear',  the  child  is  sAvallowing  a pin'!) 


112 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


2.  Thou  little  tricksy  Puck^! 

With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 

Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, — 

(The  doorM  the  doorM  he’ll  tumble  down  the  stair^!) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire"' ! 

(Why,  Jane,  he’ll  set  his  pinafore^  afire!) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy^ ! ^ 

In  love’s  dear  chain  so  bright  a link. 

Thou  idol  of  thy  parents'; — (Hang^  the  boy! 

There  goes  my  ink^ !) 

3.  Thou  cherub — ^but  of  earth'; 

Fit  playfellow  for  fays,  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  sport  and  mirth', 

(That  dog  will  bite^  him,  if  he  pulls  his  tail'!) 

Thou  human  humming-bee',  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing  in  youth’s  Elysium  ever  sunny', 

(Another  tumble'! — that’s  his  precious  noseM) 

Thy  father’s  pride  and  hope'! 

(He’ll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope^!) 

With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  Nature’s  mint, 
(Where  did  he  learn  that  squinP  ?) 

4.  Thou  young  domestic  dove'! 

(He’ll  have  that  jug''  off,  with  another  shove'!) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest! 

(Are  these  torn  clothes  his  best?) 

Little  epitome  of  man! 

(He’ll  climb  upon  the  table'",  that’s'  his  plan!) 

Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life', 
(He’s  got  a knife'!) 

5.  Thou  enviable  being'! 

No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing, 

Play  on',  play  on'. 

My  elfin  John'! 

Toss'  the  light  ball, -bestride'  the  stick, 

(I  knew'  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick'!) 

With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down. 

Prompting  the  face  grotesque,  and  antic  brisk', 

With  many  a lamb-like  frisk! 

(He’s  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown'!) 

6.  Thou  pretty  opening  rose'! 

(do  to  your  mother',  child',  and  wipe  your  nose'!) 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


113 


Balmy  and  breathing  music  like  the  south^, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  moiith^ ! ) 

Bold  as  the  hawk\  yet  gentle  as  the  dove^; 
(I  ’ll  tell  you  whaC,  my  love^, 

I can  not  write,  unless  he’s  sent  above'' !) 


XXIX.— SPEECH  OF  WALPOLE  IN  REPROOF  OF  MR.  PITT. 

William  Pitt,  afterward  Earl  op  Chatham,  and  Sir  Robert  Wal- 
pole, were  distinguished  English  statesmen  of  the  last  century.  Pitt 
entered  Parliament  when  he  was  twenty-seven.  At  that  time,  Walpole 
was  a leading  politician,  and  as  Pitt  opposed  his  measures  with  a force 
and  eloquence  seldom  equaled,  he  drew  upon  himself  the  opposition 
of  Walpole,  as  expressed  in  this  extract,  and  which  Pitt  answered  in 
the  succeeding  extract  with  a vigor  and  eloquence  never  surpassed. 

In  this  and  some  succeeding  lessons,  the  emphatic  words  are  marked, 
in  addition  to  the  inflections. 

1.  I WAS  unwilling  to  interrupt  the  course  of  this  debate, 
while  it  was  carried  on  with  calmness  and  decency,  by  men 
who  do  not  suffer  the  ardor  of  opposition  to  cloud  their 
reason,  or  transport  them  to  such  expressions  as  the  dignity 
of  this  assembly  does^  not  admit. 

2.  I have  hitherto  deferred  answering  the  gentleman,  who 

declaimed  against  the  bill  with  such  fluency  and  rhetoric, 
and  such  vehemence  of  gesture ; who  charged  the  advocates 
for  the  expedients  now  proposed,  with  having  no  regard  to 
any  interests  but  their  and  with  making  laws  only  to 

consume  paper',  and  threatened  them  with  the  defection  of 
their  adherents,  and  the  loss  of  their  influence,  upon  this 
new  discovery  of  their  folly  and  ignorance.  Nor,  do  I now 
answer  him  for  any  other  purpose,  than  to  remind  him  how 
little  the  clamor  of  rage'"  and  petulancy  of  invective^  contribute 
to  the  end  for  which  this  assembly  is  called  together';  how 
little  the  discovery  of  truth  is  promoted''^  and  the  security  of 
the  nation  estahlished^  by  pompous  diction  and  theatrical  emo- 
tion. 

3.  Formidable  sounds  and  furious  declamation.^  confident 
assertions'^  and  lofty  periods'.,  may  affect  the  young  and  inexpe- 
rienced; and  perhaps  the  gentleman  may  have  contracted  his 


114 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


habits  of  oratory,  by  conversing  more  with  those  of  his  oicn 
age^  than  with  such  as  have  more  opportunities  of  acquiring 
knowledge,  and  more  successful  methods  of  communicating 
their  sentiments.  If  the  heat  of  temper  would  permit  him  to 
attend  to  those,  whose  age  and  long  acquaintance  with  busi- 
ness give  them  an  indisputable  right  to  deference  and  superi- 
ority, he  would  learn  in  time  to  reason^ ^ rather  than  declaim! ; 
and  to  prefer  of  argument  and  an  accurate  knowledge 

of /ac^s',  to  sounding  epithets  and  splendid  superlatives'^  which 
may  disturb  the  imagination  for  a moment,  but  leave  no 
lasting  impression  upon  the  mind.  He  would  learn,  that  to 
accuse^  and  prove'  are  very  different'" ; and  that  reproaches^ 
unsupported  by  evidence'^  affect  only  the  character  of  him 
that  utter^  them. 

4.  Excursions  of  fancy  and  flights  of  oratory',  are  indeed 
pardonable  in  young'  men,  but  in  no  other;  and  it  would 
surely  contribute  more,  even  to  the  purpovse  for  which  some 
gentlemen  appear  to  speak,  (that  of  depreciating  the  conduct 
of  the  administration',)  to  prove  the  inconveniences  and  injus- 
tice of  this  bill',  than  barely  to  assert'"  them,  with  whatever 
magnificence  of  language' , or  appearance  of  zeal',  honesty',  or 
compassion!". 


XXX.— PITT’S  REPLY  TO  SIR  ROBERT  WALPOLE. 

See  note  at  the  head  of  the  preceding  Exercise. 

(Observe  in  this,  examples  of  antithesis  and  relative  emphasis.) 

1.  The  atrocious  crime  of  being  a young  man,  which  the 
honorable  gentlemen  has,  with  such  spirit  and  decency, 
charged  upon  I shall  neither  attempt  to  palliate  nor 

deny^ but  content  myself  with  hoping,  that  I may  be  one 
of  those  whose  follies  cease  with  their  youth' , and  not  of  that 
number,  who  are  ignorant  in  spite  of  experience.  Whether 
youth!"  can  be  imputed  to  a man  as  a reproach',  I will  not 
assume  the  province  of  determining';  but  surely  age  may 
become  justly  contemptible,  if  the  opportunities  which  it 
brings  have  passed  away  without  improvement!,  and  vied 
appears  to  prevail' , when  the  passions'  have  subsided!.  The 
wretch!,  who,  after  having  seen  the  consequences  of  a thou' 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


115 


Band  errors^  continues  still  to  blunder'^  and  whose  age  has 
only  added  obstinacy^  to  stupidity'^  is  surely  the  object  either 
of  abhorrence'  or  contempt' ^ and  deserves  not  that  his  gray 
hairs  should  secure  him  from  insult.  Much  more  is  /le'  to 
be  abhorred,  who,  as  he  has  advanced'" — in  age' ^ has  receded* 
— from  virtue'"^  and  become  more  wicked' — with  less,  tempta- 
tioii" ; who  prostitutes  himself  for  money'"  which  he  can  not 
enjoy' ^ and  spends  the  remains  of  his  life,  in  the  ruin  of  his 
country'. 

2.  But  youth  is  not  my  only""  crime ; I am  accused  of  act- 
ing a theatricaV  part.  A theatrical  part  may  either  imply 
some  peculiarity  of  gesture.,  or  a dissimulation  of  my  real  sen- 
timents'"., and  an  adoption  of  the  opinions  and  language  of 
anothe}'^  man.  In  the  first  sense,  the  charge  is  too  trifiing 
to  be  confuted" ; and  deserves  only  to  be  mentioned,  that  it 
may  be  despised".  1'  am  at  liberty,  like  every  other'"  man 
to  use  my  own"  language;  and  though,  perhaps,  I may  have 
some  ambition  to  please  this  gentleman,  I shall  not  lay  my- 
self under  any  restraint,  nor  very  solicitously  copy  his 
diction  or  his  mien'",  however  matured  by  age',  or  modeled  by 
experience". 

3.  But,  if  any  man  shall,  by  charging  me  with  theatrical 
behavior,  imply,  that  I utter  any  sentiments  but  my  own',  I 
shall  treat  him  as  a calumniator'  and  a villaiii" ; nor  shall 
any  protectioii"  shelter  him  from  the  treatment  he  deserves. 
I shall,  on  such  an  occasion,  without  scruple  trample'  upon 
all  those  forms  with  which  wealth  and  dignity  intrench 
themselves,  nor  shall  any  thing  but  age'  restrain  my  resent- 
ment'; age, — which  always  brings  one"  privilege,  that  of 
being  insolent  and  supercilious,  without  punishment. 

4.  But,  with  regard  to  those  whom  I have  offended,  I am 

of  opinion,  that  if  I had"  acted  a borrowed  part',  I should 
have  avoided"  their  censure : the  heat  that  offended'  them, 
was  the  ardor  of  conviction'",  and  that  zeal"  for  the  service 
of  mj  country'  neither  hope'  nor  fear  shall  influence  me 

to  suppress'.  I will  not  sit  unconcerned'  while  my  liberty  is 
invaded',  nor  look  in  silence'  upon  public  robbery".  I will 
exert  my  endeavors,  at  lohatever  hazard,  to  repel  the  aggres- 
sor, and  drag  the  thief  to  justice",  whoever  may  protect  hin? 
in  his  villainies,  and  whoever  partake  of  plunder. 


m 


NEAV  SIXTH  READER, 


XXXI.— CHARACTER  OF  MR.  PITT. 

From  Grattan. 

1.  The  secretary  stood  alone.  Modern  degeneracy  had 
not  reached'  him.  Original  and  unaccommodating',  the  fea- 
tures of  his  character  had  the  hardihood  of  antiquity.  His 
august  mind'  overawed  majesty  itself.  No  state  chicanery', 
no  narrow  system  of  vicious  politics',  no  idle  contest  for 
ministerial  victories',  sank  him  to  the  vulgar  level  of  the 
great';  but  overbearing',  persuasive',  and  impracticable',  his 
object  was  England',  his  ambition  was  fame'. 

2.  Without  dividing^  he  destroyed'"  party ; without  cor- 
.riipting^  he  made  a venal  age  unanimous.  France  sunk  be- 

neatli'  him.  With  one''  hand  he  smote  the  house  of  Bour- 
bon, and  wielded  in  the  other'  the  democracy  of  England. 
The  sight  of  his  mind  was  infinite' ; and  his  schemes  were  to 
affect,  not  England'"^  not  the  present'"  age  only,  but  Europe' 
and  posterity.  Wonderful  were  the  means  by  which  those 
schemes  were  accomplished';  always  seasonable.^  always  ade- 
quate^ the  suggestion  of  an  understanding  animated  by  ardor, 
and  enlightened  by  prophecy. 

3.  The  ordinary  feelings  which  make  life  amiable  and  in- 
dolent were  tinhnowii"  to  him.  No  domestic  difficulties^  no 
domestic  weakness'^  reached  him ; but  aloof  from  the  sordid 
occurrences  of  life,  and  unsullied  by  its  intercourse,  he  came 
occasionally  into  our  system,  to  counsel  and  decide.  A char- 
acter so  exalted',  so  strenuous',  so  various',  so  authoritative', 
astonished'"  a corrupt  age,  and  the  treasury  trembled  at  the 
name  of  Pitt,  through  all  classes  of  venality.  Corruption 
imagined,  indeed,  that  she  had  found  defects'"  in  this  statesman, 
■and  talked  much  of  the  inconsistency  of  his  glory',  and  much 
of  the  ruin  of  his  victories' ; but  the  history  of  his  country, 
and  the  calamities  of  the  enemy,  answered  and  refuted''  her. 

4.  Nor  were  political  his  only'"  talents.  His  eloquence 
was  an  era'"  in  the  senate;  peculiar,  and  spontaneous;  famil- 
iarly expressing  gigantic  sentiments  and  instructive  wisdom  j 
not  like  the  torrent  of  Demosthenes,  or  the  splendid  confla- 
gration of  Tully;  it  resembled  sometimes  the  thunder'.^  and 
sometimes  the  music''  of  the  spheres.  He  did  not  conduct 
the  understanding  through  the  painful  subtility  of  argumen-' 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


117 


tation,  nor  was  he  ever  on  the  rack  of  exertion' ; but  rather 
lightened'  upon  the  subject,  and  reached  the  point  by  the 
flashings  of  the  mind,  which,  like  those  of  the  eye^  were  felt\ 
but  could  not  be  followed. 

5.  Upon  the  whole,  there  was  in  this  man  something  that 
could  create',  subvert',  or  reform' ; an  understanding,  a 
spirit',  and  an  eloquence',  to  summon  mankind  to  society,  or 
to  break  the  bonds  of  slavery  asunder,  and  to  rule  the  wild- 
ness of  free  minds  with  unbounded  authority  ; something  that 
could  establish^  or  overwhelrd  empires,  and  strike  a blow'  in 
the  world  that  should  resound  through  the  universe^. 


XXXII.— THE  GOUTY  MERCHANT  AND  THE  STRANGER. 

Public  Ledger;  a noted  newspaper  in  London. 

King’s  Head ; a tavern  in  London. 

Newgate;  a London  prison. 

1.  In  Broadstreet  building,  on  a winter  night. 

Snug  by  his  parlor-fire,  a gouty  wight 

Sat  all  alone,  with  one  hand  rubbing 
His  feet,  rolled  up  in  fleecy  hose, 

With  Mother  he’d  beneath  his  nose 

The  Public  Ledger^,  in  whoso  columns  grubbing, 

He  noted  all  the  sales  of  hops', 

Ships',  shops^,  and  slops' ; 

Gum',  galls^,  and  groceries';  ginger',  gin'. 

Tar',  tallow',  turmeric',  turpentine^,  and  tin'; 

When  lo^!  a decent  personage  in  black. 

Entered  and  most  politely  said^ : 

2.  “ Your /co^TTian,  sir,  has  gone  his  nightly  track 
To  the  King’s  Head, 

And  left  your  door  ajar^.^  which  I 
Observed  in  passing  by  ; 

And  thought  it  neighborly  to  give  you  notice^!* 

3.  “Yen  thousand  thanks"' ; how  very  few  do  get. 

In  time  of  danger, 

Such  kind  attentions  from  a stranger'^ ! 

Assuredly,  that  fellow’s  throat  is 
Doomed  to  a final  drop  at  Newgate': 

He  knows.,  too,  (the  unconscionable  elf). 

That  there ’s  no  soul  at  home  except  myself 

10 


118 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


4.  ‘ Indeed'^'  replied  the  stranger,  looking  grave. 
‘•Then  he’s  a double^  knave; 

He  knows  that  rogues  and  thieves  by  scores 
Nightly  beset  unguarded  doors^. 

And  see,  how  easily^  might  one 
Of  these  domestic  foes. 

Even  beneath  your  very  nose^ 

Perform  his  knavish  tricks^ ; 

Enter  your  room,  as  7^  have  done. 

Blow  out  your  candles'^ — thus'^ — and  thus^ — , 

Pocket  your  silver  candlesticks'^^ 

And — walk  off^ — thus'^T 

5.  So  said"',  so  done^;  he  made  no  more  remark, 

Nor  waited  for  replies. 

But  marched  off  with  his  prize, 

Leaving  the  gouty  merchant  in  the  dark. 


XXXIII.— SPEECH  BEFORE  THE  VIRGINIA  CONVENTION. 

From  Patrick  Henry. 

Patrick  Henry  was'  a distinguished  American  statesman  during  the 
Revolutionary  war.  He  was  a native  of  Virginia,  held  its  highest  offices, 
and  was  a member  of  the  convention  which  met  to  deliberate  upon 
uniting  with  the  other  states  in  resistance  to  Great  Britain. 

Observe  that  the  emphatic  pause  is  freely  used. 

1.  It  is  natural  for  man  to  indulge  in  the  illusions  of 
hope'.  We  are  apt  to  shut  our  eyes  against  a painful  truth', 
and  listen  to  the  song  of  that  syren'  till  she  transforms  us 
into  beasts'.  Is  thi^ — the  part  of  whe  me}i\  engaged  in  a 
great  and  arduous  struggle  for  liberty'^  Are  we  disposed  to 
be  of  the  number  of  those'^  who,  having  ej/es, — see  not,  and 
having  ears, — hear  not  the  things  which  so  nearly  concern 
their  temporal  salvation'?  For  — part,  whatever  anguish 
of  spirit  it  may  cost\  I am  willing  to  know  the  whole  truth; 
to  know  the  leors^',  and  to  provide"  for  it. 

2.  I have  but  one  lamp,  by  which  mi/  feet  are  guided; 
and  that — is — the  lamp  of  experience.  I know  of  no  way 
of  judging  of  iXi^futurd.,  but  by  the  |)as/';  judging  by 
the  past! I wish  to  know  what  there  has  been  in  the  con- 
duct of  the  British  ministry  for  the  last  ten  years',  to  justify 
those  hopes  with  which  gentlemen  have  been  pleased  to 


ECLECTIC  SERIES 


119 


solace  themselves  and  the  house^?  Is  it  that  insidious  sinil^ 
with  which  our  petition  has  been  lately  received'?  Trust  it 
not:  it  will  prove  a snare"  to  your  feet.  Suffer  not  your- 
selves to  be  betrayed  with  a kiss".  Ask  yourselves,  how 
this  gracious  reception  of  our  petition,  comports  with  those 
warlike  preparations  which  cover  our  waters  and  darken  our 
land'.  Are  fleets^ — and  armies' — necessary  to  a work  of 
love  and  reconciliation'^  Have  we  shown  ourselves  so  un- 
willing to  be  reconciled,  that  force' — must  be  called  in  to  win 
back  our  love'?  Let  us  not  deceive"  ourselves.  These  are 
the  implements  of  war^  and  suhjugaAion'" ; the  last  arguments 
to  which  kings  resort. 

3.  I ask,  gentlemen',  what  means  this  mariiad  array.^  if 
its  purpose  be  not  to  force  us  into  submission?  Can  gentle- 
men assign  any  other — possible — motive  for  it?  Has  Grreat 
Britain  any  enemy' — in  this  quarter  of  the  world,  to  call  for 
all  this  accumulation  of  navies  and  armies'?  No',  she 
has  none'".  They  are  meant  for  us'^:  they  caii"  be  meant  for 
no  other^.  They  are  sent  over  to  bind^  and  rivet'‘  upon  us 
those  chains,  which  the  British  ministry  have  been  so  long 
forging.  And  what  have  we  to  oppose  to  them?  Shall  we 
try  argument?  We  have  been  trying  that^  for  the  last — ten 
— years.  Have  we  any  thing  new'  to  offer  upon  the  subject? 
Nothing'.  We  have  held  the  subject  up  in  every  light  in 
which  it  was  capable'" ; but  it  has  been  all  in  vain'. 

4.  Shall  we  resort  to  entreaty'  and  humble  supplication'? 
What  terms''  shall  we  find^  which  have  not  been  already 
exhausted'"?  Let  us  not,  I beseech  you,  deceive  ourselves 
longer'.  We  have  done  every'  thing  that  could  be  done., 
to  avert  the  storm  which  is  now  coming  on.  We  have 
petitioned ; we  have  remonstrated' ; we  have  supplicated'"; 
we  have  prostrated'  ourselves  at  the  foot  of  the  throne, 
and  implored  its  interposition  to  arrest  the  tyrannical  hands 
of  the  ministry  and  parliament.  Our  petitions'  have  been 
slighted" ; our  remonstrances  have  produced  additional  violence 
and  insult;  our  supplications',  disregarded" ; and  we  have 
been  spurned}  with  contempt  from  the  foot  of  the  throne. 

5.  In  vain,  after  these  things,  may  we  indulge  the  fond 
hope  of  peace  and  reconciliation.  There  is  no  longer  any 
room'"  for  hope.  If  we  wish  to  be  free' ; if  we  mean  to 


120 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


preserve  inviolate  those  inestimable  privileges  for  which  we 
have  been  so  long  contending';  if  we  mean  not  basely  to 
abandon^  the  noble  struggle  in  which  we  have  been  so  long 
engaged,  and  which  we  have  pledged  ourselves  never''  to 
abandon,  until  the  glorious  object  of  our  contest  shall  be 
obtained';  we  must  fight!  1 repeat  it\  we  must  eight'! 
An  appeal  to  arms'  and  the  God  of  Ilosts^  is  all  that  is 
left  us. 

6.  They  tell  us,  that  we  are  wealt ; unable  to  co^d 
with  so  formidable  an  adversary.  But  when  shall  we  be 
strongedf  Will  it  be  the  next  weeh\  or  the  next  year'? 
Will  it  be,  when  we  are  totally  disarmed^  and  when  a British 
guard  shall  be  stationed  in  every  house'?  Shall  we  gather 
strength  by  irresolution  and  inactioidf  Shall  we  acquire  the 
means  of  effectual  resistance  by  lying  supinely  on  our  backs', 
and  hugging  the  delusive  phantom  of  hope',  until  our  enemies 
shall  have  bound  us  hand  and  foot'?  We  are  7iot  weah^  if 
we  make  a proper  use  of  those  means',  which  the  Grod  of 
nature  hath  placed  in  our  power. 

7.  Three  millions  of  people^  armed  in  the  holy  cause  of 
liberty^  and  in  such  a country  as  that  which  we  possess,  are 
invincible  by  any  force  which  our  enemy  can  send  against  us. 
Besides,  we  shall  not  fight  our  battles — alonet  There  is  a 
just  Cod'"  who  presides  over  the  destinies  of  nations';  and 
who  will  raise  up  friends  to  fight  our  battles  for  us.  The 
battle  is  not  to  the  strong'  alone;  it  is  to  the  vigilant — the 
active — the  brave''.  Besides,  we  have  no  election.  If  we 
were  base  enough  to  desird  it,  it  is  now  too  late  to  retire 
from  the  contest'.  There  is  no'  retreat  but  in  submission 
and  slavery!  Our  chains  are  forged'.  Their  clanking  may 
be  heard  on  the  plains  of  Boston'!  The  war  is  inevitahld; 
and — let  it  come'"!  I repeat  it,  let  it  come'! 

8.  It  is  in  vain  to  extenuate  the  matter'.  Gentlemen 
may  cry  peace',  peace' ; but  there  is  no''  peace.  The  war  is 
actually  begun'.  The  next  gale  that  sweeps  from  the  north, 
will  bring  to  our  ears  the  clash  of  resounding  arms'!  Our 
brethren'  are  already  in  the  field ! Why  stand  we" — here 
idle?  What  is  it  that  gentlemen  wisJtf  What  would  they 
have''?  Is  life  so  dear' or  peace  so  sweet' as  to  be  purchased 
at  the  price  of  chains'  and  slavery'?  Forbid  it  Almighty 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


121 


God ! I know  not  what  course  others'  may  take ; but  as  for 
me' ^ give  me  liberty'^  or  GIVE  ME  DEATH. 

Remark. — In  the  above  extract,  may  be  found  an  illustration  of 
most  of  the  principles  of  emphasis. 

The  most  important  emphatic  words  and  pauses  only,  are  marked. 
On  this  point,  there  is  always  room  for  ditference  of  opinion.  Scarcely 
any  two  persons  would  pronounce  a sentence  ^\\\\  'precisely  the  same 
emphasis.  Observe,  in  the  above  lesson,  the  all-controlling  power  of 
emphasis  in  determining  to  the  falling  inflection.  The  words  “see,’’ 
“hear,”  and  “my,”  in  the  first  paragraph,  the  word  “that”  in  the 
second,  and  “spurned”  and  “contempt”  in  the  fourth  paragraph,  arc 
examples  of  this.  Let  the  reader  remember  that  a high  degree  of 
emphasis  is  sometimes  expressed  by  a whisper. 


XXXIV.— VANITY  OF  LIFE. 

From  Herder’s  Hebrew  Poetry. 

1.  Man,  born  of  woman, 

Is  of  few  days. 

And  full  of  trouble. 

He  cometh  forth  as  a flower,  and  is  cut 
He  fleeth  also  as  a shadow, 

And  continueth  not. 

% Upon  such  dost  thou  open  thine  eye. 

And  bring  me  unto  judgment  with  thee? 
Among  the  impure  is  there  one  pure‘s 
Not  one\ 

3.  Are  his  days  so  determined^? 

Hast  thou  numbered  his  months^, 

And  set  fast  his  bounds  for  him. 

Which  he  can  never  pass^? 

Turn^  then  from  him  that  he  may  resi^^  ' 
And  enjoy as  an  hireling^,  his  day\ 

4.  The  tree^  hath  hope'^^  if  it  be  cut  down. 

It  l)ecometh  green'^  again. 

And  new  shoots  are  put  forth. 

If  even  the  root  is  old'^  in  the  earth. 

And  its  stock  die'^  in  the  ground, 

From  vapor  of  water  it  will  bud. 

And  bring  forth  boughs  as  a young  plant. 


122 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


5.  But  man  dieth,  and  his  power  is  gone; 

He  is  taken  away,  and  where  is 

6.  Till  the  waters  waste  from  the  sea, 

Till  the  river  faileth  and  is  dry  land, 

Man  lieth  low,  and  riseth  not  again. 

Till  the  heavens  are  old,  he  shall  not  awake, 

Nor  he  aroused  from  his  sleep. 

7.  0 that  thou  wouldst  conceal  me 
In  the  realm  of  departed  souls^! 

Hide  me  in  secret,  till  thy  wrath  he  past'; 

Appoint  me  then  a new  term, 

And  remember  me  again. 

But  alas!  if  a man  die^. 

Shall  he  live^  again? 

8.  So  long,  then,  as  my  toil  endureth, 

Will  I wait  till  a change'  come  to  me. 

Thou  wilt  calF  me,  and  I shall  answer'; 

Thou  wilt  pity  the  work  of  thy  hands. 

Though  now  thou  numherest  my  steps''. 

Thou  shalt  then  not  watch  for  my  sin. 

My  transgression  will  he  sealed  in  a hag', 

Thou  wilt  hind  up  and  remove  my  iniquity. 

9.  Yet  alas!  the  mountain  faileth  and  is  swallowed  up, 
The  rock  is  removed  out  of  its  place'. 

The  waters  hollow  out  the  stones'. 

The  floods  overflow  the  dust  of  the  earth', 

And  thus,  thou  destroyest  the  hope  of  man. 

10.  Thou  contendest  with  him,  till  he  faileth'. 

Thou  changest  his  countenance,  and  sendeth  him  away 
Though  his  sons  become  great^  and  happy^, 

Yet  he  knoweth  it  not; 

If  they  come  to  shame^  and  dishonor\ 

He^  perceiveth  it  not\ 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


123 


XXXV.— THE  MARINER’S  DREAM. 

From  Dimond. 

In  this  and  some  following  Lessons,  the  principles  applicable  to  the 
reaJ.ng  of  poetry  are  illustrated. 

1.  In  slumbers  | of  midnight  ||  the  sailor-boy  lay; 

His  hammock  | swung  loose  ||  at  the  sport  of  the  wind; 
Hut  watch-worn  | and  w^eary,  ||  his  cares  | flew  away, 

And  visions  ] of  happiness  ||  danced  o’er  his  mind. 

2.  lie  dreamed  of  his  home,  ||  of  his  dear  native  bowers, 

And  pleasures  that  waited  ||  on  life’s  merry  morn; 

While  Memory  each  scene  ||  gayly  covered  with  flowers, 

And  restored  every  rose,  ||  but  secreted  the  thorn. 

3.  Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  ||  spread  wide. 

And  bade  the  young  dreamer  ||  in  ecstasy  rise; 

Now,  far,  far  behind  him  ||  the  green  waters  glide, 

And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  |1  blesses  his  eyes. 

4.  The  jessamine  clambers  ||  in  flowers  o’er  the  thatch, 

And  the  sw-allow  sings  sweet  ||  from  her  nest  in  the  wall; 
All  trembling  with  transport  ||  he  raises  the  latch. 

And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  ||  reply  to  his  call. 

5.  A father  bends  o’er  him  ||  with  looks  of  delight; 

His  cheek  is  impearled  ||  with  a mother’s  warm  tear; 

And  the  lips  of  the  boy  ||  in  a love-kiss  unite 

With  the  Ups  of  the  maid  ||  whom  his  bosom  holds  dear. 

6.  The  heart  of  the  sleeper  ||  beats  high  in  his  breast; 

Joy  qui^ens  his  pulse,  ||  all  his  hardships  seem  o’er; 

And  a murmur  of  happiness  ||  steals  through  his  rest — 

‘^0  God^!  jthou  hast  blest  me,  ||  I ask  for  no  more.” 

7.  Ah!  whence  is  that  flame  ||  which  now  bursts  on  his  eye? 

Ah!  what  is  that  sound  ||  that  now  ’larums  his  ear? 

T is  the  lightning’s  red  glare  ||  painting  hell  on  the  sky! 
’Tis  the  crashing  of  thunders,  1|  the  groan  of  the  sphere! 

8.  He  springs^  from  his  hammock,  ||  h^Jlies^  to  the  deck; 

Amazement  confronts  him  ||  with  images  dire; 

Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  ||  drive  the  vessel  a wreck. 

The  masts  fly  in  splinters,  ||  the  shrouds  are  on  fire. 


124 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


9.  Like  mountains  the  billows  ||  tumultuously  swell; 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch^  ||  calls  on  Mercy  to  save; 

Unseen  hands  of  spirits  ||  are  ringing  his  knelF, 

And  the  death-angel  flaps  ||  his  broad  wings  o’er  the  wave  I 

10.  O sailor-boy^,  ||  woe  to  thy  dream  of  delight! 

In  darkness  ||  dissolves  the  gay  frost-work  of  bliss; 

Where  now  is  the  picture  ||  that  Fancy  touched  bright; 

Thy  parents’  fond  pressure,  1|  and  love’s  honeyed  kiss? 

11.  O sailor-boy^ I sailor-boy^!  ||  never  again 

Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred,  ||  thy  wishes  repay; 

Unblessed  and  un honored,  ||  down  deep  in  the  main, 

Full  many  a score  fathom,  ||  thy  frame  shall  decay. 

12.  No  tomb  shall  e’er  plead  ||  to  remembrance  for  thee'', 

Or  redeem  form  or  fame  ||  from  the  merciless  surge, 

But  the  white  foam  of  waves  ||  shall  thy  winding-sheet  be, 
And  winds,  in  the  midnight  |1  of  winter,  thy  dirge. 

13.  On  a bed  of  green  sea-flowers,  ||  th}^  limbs  shall  be  laid 

Around  thy  white  bones,  ||  the  red  coral  shall  grow; 

Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  ||  threads  of  amber  be  made^. 

And  every  part  suit  ||  to  thy  mansion  below. 

14.  Uays^,  months^,  years^,  and  ages^  ||  shall  circle  away, 

And  still  the  vast  waters  ||  above  thee  shall  roll; 

Earth  loses  thy  pattern  ||  forever  and  aye ; 

0 sailor-boy^!  sailor-boy^!  ||  peace  to  thy  soul! 


XXXVI.— THE  SOLDIER’S  REST^ 

From  Walter  Scott. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  in  1771.  After  his  admis- 
sion to  the  Scottish  bar,  he  determined  to  devote**himself  to  literary 
pursuits,  and  his  path  to  fame  was  opened  by  the  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scot- 
tish Border.  After  the  publication  of  some  original  poems,  he  chose  a 
new  department  of  literature,  and,  concealing  his  name,  commenced 
the  series  called  the  Waverly  Novels.  He  also  produced  several  historical 
works.  He  died  at  Abbotsford,  in  1832. 

Pibroch  ; a wild,  irregular  species  of  music  peculiar  to  the  Highlands. 

Reveille,  (pro.  re-vdVya)\  signal  for  mustering. 

1.  Soldier^,  resP!  ||  thy  warfare  o’er^, 

Sleep  the  sleep  |1  that  knows  not  breaking; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


125 


Dream  of  battle  fields  ||  no  more, 

Days  of  danger^,  ||  nights  of  waking'. 

In  our  isle’s  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  ||  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  ||  fall, 

Every  sense  ||  in  slumber  dewing. 

Soldier^,  rest'!  ||  thy  warfare  o’er^, 

Dream  of  battle  fields  ||  no  more. 

Sleep  the  sleep  ||  that  knows  not  breaking' 
Morn  of  toiF,  ||  nor  night  of  waking'. 

2.  No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear', 

Armor’s  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here, 

Mustering  clan',  or  squadron'  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark' shrill  fife  may  come'. 

At  the  day-break  from  the  fallow'. 

And  the  bittern'^  sound  his  drum'. 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 

Ruder^  sounds  shall  none^  be  near, 

Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here', 

Here’s  no  war-steed’s  neigh  and  champing^, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping. 

3.  Huntsman',  rest' ! thy  chase  is  done' ; 

While  our  slumb’rous  spells  assail'  ye. 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun', 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille'. 

Sleep'!  the  deer  is  in  his  den'; 

Sleep' ! thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying'  ’ 
Sleep'!  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen', 

H^  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying'. 
Huntsman',  rest' ; thy  chase  is  done' 

Think  not  of  the  rising  sun', 

For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 

Here  no  bugle  sounds  reveille. 


u 


126 


NEW  STXTH  READEK. 


XXXVIL— BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

By  Charles  Wolfe. 

Rev.  Charles  Wolfe  was  a clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England, 
who  died  in  early  life,  leaving  but  few  specimens  of  his  poetic  talent. 
Byron  said  of  this  ballad,  that  he  would  rather  be  the  author  of  it  than 
of  any  one  ever  written. 

1.  Not  a drum  | was  heard,  ||  not  a funeral  note, 

As  his  corse  1|  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

Not  a soldier  | discharged  ||  his  farewell  | shot 
O’er  the  grave  ||  where  our  hero  was  buried. 

2.  We  buried  him  | darkly,  [|  at  dead  | of  night, 

The  sods^  ||  with  our  bayonets  | turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam  s ||  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  ||  dimly  burning. 

3.  No  useless  coffin!^  ||  inclosed  | his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  | nor  in  shroud  ||  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a warrior  ||  taking  his  rest. 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

4.  Few  and  shorF  ||  were  the  prayers'^  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  ||  not  a word  of  sorrow; 

And  we  steadfastly  gazed  ||  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  ||  of  the  morrow. 

5.  We  thought,  ||  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  ||  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the/oe^  | and  the  stranger'^  ||  would  tread  o’er  his  head, 
And  we'  | far  away  ||  on  the  billow. 

6.  Lightly  | they’ll  talk  ||  of  the  spirit  | that’s*4|one^, 

And  o’er  his  cold  ashes  ||  upbraid' him; 

But  little  he'll  reck,  ||  if  they’ll  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave^  ||  where  a Briton  has  laid  him. 

I . But  half  I of  our  heavy  task  ||  was  done. 

When  the  clock  ||  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  ||  the  distant  and  random  gun 
Which  the  foe  ||  was  sullenly  firing. 

8.  Slowl}^  and  sadly  ||  we  laid  him  down. 

From  the  field  of  his  fame,  1|  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a line^  ||  and  we  raised  not  a stone; 

But  we  left  him  ||  alone  with  his  glory. 


ECLECTIC  SEHIES. 


J27 


XXXVIIL— MARY,  THE  MAID  OF  THE  INN. 

From  Southey. 

1.  Where  is  she,  the  poor  maniac,  whose  wildly-fixed  eyes 

Seem  a heart  overcharged  to  express  ? 

She  weeps  noc^,  yet  often  and  deeply  she  sighs; 

She  never  complains,  but  her  silence  implies 
The  composure  of  settled  distress. 

2.  No  aid^,  no  compassion^,  the  maniac  will  seek; 

Cold  and  hunger'"  awake  not  her  care ; 

Through  the  rags,  do  the  winds  of  the  winter  blow  bleak 
On  her  poor  withered  bosom,  half  bare'" ; and  her  cheek 
Has  the  deadly  pale  hue  of  despair. 

3.  Yet  cheerful  and  happy'",  nor  distant  the  day, 

Poor  Mary,  the  maniac,  has  been^ : 

The  traveler  remembers,  who  journeyed  this  way, 

No  damsel  so  lovely\  no  damsel  so  gay'". 

As  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn. 

4.  Her  cheerful  address  filled  the  guests  with  delight, 

As  she  welcomed  them  in  with  a smile ; 

Her  heart  was  a stranger  to  childish  affright, 

And  Mary  w^ould  walk  by  the  Abbey  at  night, 

When  the  wind  whistled  down  the  dark  aisle. 

5.  She  loved\  and  young  Richard  had  settled  the  day'; 

And  she  hoped  to  be  happy  for  life : 

But  Richard  was  idle  and  worthless ; and  they 
Who  knew  him,  would  pity  poor  Mary^,  and  say, 

That  she  was  too  good  for  his  wife. 

6.  ’T  was  in  autumn',  and  stormy  and  dark  was  the  night, 

And  fast  were  the  windows  and  door  ; 

Two  guests  sat  enjoying  the  fire  that  burnt  bright 
And,  smoking  in  silence,  with  tranquil  delight. 

They  listened  to  hear  the  wind  roar. 

7.  “’Tis  pleasant,”  cried  one,  “seated  by  the  fireside, 

To  hear  the  wind  whistle  without.” 

“A  fine  night  for  the  Abbey'!  ” his  comrade  replied: 
“Methinks  a man’s  courage  would  now  be  well  tried, 
Who  would  Avander  the  ruins  about. 


128 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


8.  “ I like  a school-boy,  should  tremble  to  hear 

The  hoarse  ivy  shake  over  my  head; 

And  could  fancy  I saw,  half  persuaded  by  fear, 

Some  ugly  old  Abbot’s  grim  spirit'^  appear; 

For  this  wind  might  awaken  the  dead!” 

9.  ‘‘I  ’ll  wager  a dinner,”  the  other  one  cried, 

“ That  Mary  would  venture  there  now’^y 
“Then  wager'^^  and  lose^\  ” with  a sneer  he  replied; 

“I’ll  warrant  she  cl. fancy  a ghost  by  her  side, 

- And  faint  if  she  saw  a white  cow  ! ” 

10.  “Will  Mary  this  charge  on  her  courage  allow?” 

His  companion  exclaimed  with  a smile' ; 

“ I shall  win',  for  I know  she  will  venture  there  now, 

And  earn  a new  bonnet  by  bringing  a bough 
From  the  alder  that  grows  in  the  aisle.” 

11.  With  fearless  good-humor  did  Mary  comply'. 

And  her  way  to  the  Abbey  she  bent; 

The  night  it  was  gloomy',  the  wind  it  was  high'; 

And,  as  hollowly  howling  it  swept  through  the  sky. 

She  shivered  with  cold  as  she  went. 

12.  O’er  the  path  so  well  known,  still  proceeded  the  maid. 

Where  the  Abbey  rose  dim  on  the  sight; 

Through  the  gate-way,  she  entered,  she  felt  not  afraid; 

Yet  the  ruins  Avere  lonely  and  wild,  and  their  shade 
Seemed  to  deepen  the  gloom  of  the  night. 

13.  All  around  her  Avas  silent,  save  Avhen  the  rude  blast 

HoAvled  dismally  round  the  old  pile ; 

Over  Aveed-covered  fragments  still  fearless  she  passed. 

And  arriA^ed  at  the  innermost  ruin  at  lastjl^ 

Where  the  alder-tree  grew  in  the  aisle. 

14  Well  pleased  did  she  reach'  it,  and  quickly  drew  near, 

And  hastily  gathered  the  bough ; 

When  the  sound  of  a voted  seemed  to  rise  on  her  ear; 

She  paused,  and  she  listened,  all  eager  to  hear. 

And  her  heart  panted  fearfully  noAv! 

15.  The  wind  blew';  the  hoarse  ivy  shook  over  her  head'; 

She  listened';  naught  else  could  she  hear; 

The  Avind  ceased';  her  heart  sunk  in  her  bosom  with  dread, 
For  she  heard  in  the  ruins — distinctly^ — the  tread 
W footsteps^  approaching  her  near. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


129 


16.  Behind  a wide  column,  half  breathless  with  fear, 

She  crept,  to  conceal  herself  there  ; 

That  instant,  the  moon  o’er  a dark  cloud  shone  clear, 

And  she  saw  in  the  moonlight  two  ruffians^  appear, 

And  between  them,  a corpse^  they  did  bear. 

17.  Then  Mary  could  feel  her  heart-blood  curdle  cold, 

Again  the  rough  wind  hurried  by ; 

It  blew  off  the  hat  of  the  one,  and,  behold, 

Even  close  to  the  feet  of  poor  Mary  it  rolled^ ; 

She  fell;  and  expected  to  die! 

18.  “Stop!  the  hat!”  he  exclaims.  “Nay\  come  on,  and  fast  hide 

The  dead  body' ! ” his  comrade  replies. 

She  beheld  them  in  safety  pass  on  by  her  side' ; 

She  seizes  the  hat^,  fear  her  courage  supplied. 

And  fast  through  the  Abbey  she  flies. 

19.  She  ran  with, wild  speed';  she  rushed  in  at  the  door'; 

She  looked  horribly  eager  around^ : 

Her  limbs  could  support  their  faint  burden  no  more ; 

But  exhausted  and  breathless,  she  sank  on  the  floor. 

Unable  to  utter  a sound. 

20.  Ere  yet  her  pale  lips  could  her  story  impart. 

For  a moment,  the  met  her  view: 

Her  eyes  from  that  object  convulsively  start. 

For,  O Heaven' ! what  cold  horror  thrilled  througli  her  heart, 
When  the  name  of  her  Richard}  she  knew ! 

21.  Where  the  old  Abbey  stands,  on  the  common  hard  by^, 

His  gibbet  is  now  to  be  seen; 

Not  far  from  the  inn,  it  engages  the  eye' ; 

The  traveler  beholds  it,  and  thinks  with  a sigh', 

Of  poor  Mary,  the  Maid  of  the  Inn. 


XXXIX.— JKPHTHAH’S  DAUGHTER. 

From  N.  P.  Willis. 

For  the  scene  which  this  describes,  see  the  eleventh  chapter  of  the 
Book  of  Judges,  from  the  29th  verse  through. 

1.  She  stood  before  her  father’s  gorgeous  tent, 

To  listen  for  his  coming. 


130 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


2.  1 have  thought, 

A brother  s and  a sister  s love  was  much. 

I knov)^  a brother  s^  is,  for  I have  loved 
A trusting  sister';  and  I knoAv  how  broke 
The  heart  may  be  with  its  own  tenderness. 

But  the  affection  of  a delicate  child^ 

For  Vi  fond  f ather'  ^ gushing  as  it  does 
With  the  sweet  springs  of  life,  and  living  on 
Through  all  earth’s  changes. 

Must  be  holier ! • 

3 The  wind  bore  on 

The  leaden  tramp  of  thousands.  Clarion  notes 
Rang  sharply  on  the  air  at  intervals' ; 

And  the  low,  mingled  din  of  mighty  hosts. 

Returning  from  the  battle,  poured  from  far, 

Like  the  deep  murmur  of  a restless  sea. 

4 Jephthah  led  his  warriors  on 

Through  Mizpeh’s  streets.  His  helm  was  proudly  set', 
And  his  stern  lip  curled  slightly^,  as  if  praise 
Were  for  the  hero’s  scorn.  His  step  was  yfrm, 

Vyxxt  free  as  India’s  leopard;  and  his  mail, 

Whose  shekels  none  in  Israel  might  bear"', 

Was  lighter  than  a tassel  on  his  frame. 

His  crest  was  Judah’s  kingliest',  and  the  look 
Of  his  dark,  lofty  eye  might  quell  a lion. ' 

He  led  on' ; but  thoughts 

Seemed  gathering  round  which  troubled'  him.  The  veins 
Upon  his  forehead  were  distinctly  seen, 

And  his  proud  lip  was  painfully  compressed. 

He  trod  less  firmly' ; and  his  restless  eye 

Glanced  forward  frequently,  as  if  some  ill 

He  dared  not  meet,  were  there.  His  home  was  near, 

And  men  Avere  thronging,  with  that  strange  delight 
They  have  in  human  passions,  to  observe 
The  struggle  of  his  feelings  with  his  pride. 

He  gazed  intently  forward. 

6.  A moment  more^. 

And  he  had  reached  his  home;  when  lo ! there  sprang 
One  with  a bounding  footstep^,  and  a brow 
Like  light,  to  meet'  him.  0 how  beautiful'! 

Her  dark  eye  flashing  like  a sun-lit  gem. 

And  her  luxuriant  hair^^  ’twas  like  the  sweep 
Of  a swift  wing  in  visions.  He  stood  still, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


131 


As  if  the  sight  had  withered^  him.  She  threw 
Her  arms  about  his  neck;  he  heeded  not. 

She  called  him  ^^Father\”  but  he  answered  not. 

She  stood  and  gazed  upon  him.  Was  he  wroth' 

There  was  no  anger'  in  that  blood-shot  eye. 

Had  sickness'  seized  him*^  She  unclasped  his  helm. 

And  laid  her  white  hand  gently  on  his  brow. 

The  touch  aroused^  him.  He  raised  up  his  hands. 

And  spoke  the  name  of  God,  in  agony. 

7.  She  knew  that  he  was  stricken,  then;  and  rushed 
Again  into  his  arms,  and  with  a flood 

Of  tears  she  could  not  stay,  she  sobbed  a prayer 
That  he  would  tell  her  of  his  wretchedness. 

He  told'^  her,  and  a momentary  flush 
Shot  o’er  her  countenance:  and  then',  the  soul 
Of  Jephthah’s  daughter  wakened\  and  she  stood 
Calmly  and  nobly  up,  and  said,  “’Tis  welR; 

And  I will  die!” 

8.  And  when  the  sun  had  set. 

Then  she  was  dead — but  not  by  violence. 


XL.~TREASURES  OF  THE  DEEP. 

From  Mrs.  Hemans. 

1.  What  hidest  thou  in  thy  treasure  caves  and  cells, 

Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious  main'  ? 

Pale  glistening  pearls,  and  rainbow-colored  shells. 

Bright  things,  which  gleam  unrecked  of,  and  in  vain. 
Keep^^  keep^  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea! 

We  ask  not  such  from  thee\ 

2.  Yet  more^  thy  depths  have  more ! — What  wealth  untold. 

Far  down,  and  shining  through  their  stillness,  lies? 
Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold. 

Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  argosies. 

Sweep  o’er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful  main'’ 

Earth  claims  not  th^se  again. 

3.  Yet  more,  thy  depths  have  morel  Thy  waves  have  rolled 

Above  the  cities  of  a world  gone  by! 

Sand  hath  filled  up  the  palaces  of  old: 

Sea-weed  o’ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry: 

Dash  o’er  them\  ocean,  in  thy  scornful  play! 

Man  yields  thmn  to  dec^iV. 


132 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


4.  Yet  mor^  I thy  billows  and  thy  depths  have  more^l 

High  hearts  and  brave  are  gathered  to  thy  breast! 

They  hear  not  noio  the  booming  waters  roar, 

The  battle  thunders  will  not  break  their^  rest. 

Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems^  thou  stormy  grave'  I 
Give  back  the  true  and  brave. 

5.  Give  back  the  lost'  and  lovely^  I those.,  for  whom 

The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long, 

The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight’s  breathless  gloom, 
And  the  vain  yearning  wokp  mid  festal  song! 

Hold  fast  thy  buried  isles^,  thy  towers  d erthrowrt 
But  dll  is  not  thine  own ! 


XLI.— BATTLE  IN  HEAVEN. 

From  Milton. 

John  Milton,  the  acknowledged  prince  of  British  poets,  was  born  in 
London,  in  1608.  In  early  life,  he  was  a diligent  student,  and  before  he 
attained  the  age  of  seventeen,  knew  six  languages  almost  as  familiarly 
as  his  own.  His  immortal  poem,  the  Paradise  Lost,  was  written  after 
he  was  stricken  with  blindness.  In  the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  lived 
in  retirement,  and  died  in  1674. 

This  lesson  is  adapted  to  the  cultivation  of  a low  tone. 

1.  To  whom  in  brief  thus  Abdiel  stern  replied: 

JReign  thou  in  hell,  thy"^  kingdom ; let  me  serve 
In  heaven  God  ever  blest,  and  his  divine 
Behests  obey\  worthiest  to  be  obeyed; 

Yet  chains'^  in  hell,  not  realms\  expect':  meanwhile. 
From  me,  returned,  as  erst  thou  saidst,  from  flight. 

This  greeting  on  thy  impious  crest  receive. 

2.  So  saying,  a noble  stroke  he  lifted  high. 

Which  hung  not,  but  so  swift  with  tempest  fell 
On  the  proud  crest  of  Satan,  that  no  sight, 

Nor  motion  of  swift  thought,  less  could  his  shield, 

Such  ruin  intercept.  Ten  paces  huge 
He  back  recoiled';  the  tenth',  on  bended  knee 
His  massy  spear  upstayed' : as  if  on  earth 
Winds  under  ground,  or  waters  forcing  way. 

Sidelong  had  pushed  a mountain^  from  his  seat, 

Half  sunk  with  all  his  jiines. 

3.  Now  storming  fury  rose 
And  clamor  such  as  heard  in  heaven  till  now 
Was  never';  arms  on  armor  clashing,  brayed 
Horrible  discord,  and  the  madding  wheels 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


J33 


Of  brazen  chariots  raged:  dire  was  the  noise 
Of  conflict;  over  head  the  dismal  hiss 
Of  fiery  darts  in  flaming  volleys  hew, 

And  flying  vaulted  either  host  with  fire. 

So  under  fiery  cope  together  rushed 
Both  battles  main,  with  ruinous  assault 
And  inextinguishable  rage.  All  heaven 
Resounded^;  and  had  earth  been  then,  all  earth 
Had  to  her  center  shook.  What  wonder^  ? where 
Millions  of  fierce  encountering  angels  fought 
On  either  side,  the  least  of  whom  could  wield 
These  elements,  and  arm  him  with  the  force 
Of  all  their  regions. 

4.  Long  time  in  even  scale 
The  battle  hung;  till  Satan,  who  that  day 
Prodigious  power  had  shown,  and  met  in  arms 
No  equal,  ranging  through  the  dire  attack 

Of  fighting  seraphim  confused,  at  length 
Saw  where  the  sword  of  Michael  smote,  and  felled 
Squadrons  at  once;  with  huge  two-handed  sway. 
Brandished  aloft,  the  horrid  edge  came  down 
Wide-wasting;  such  destruction  to  withstand. 

He  hasted,  and  opposed  the  rocky  orb 
Of  tenfold  adamant,  his  ample  shield 
Of  vast  circumference.  At  his  approach. 

The  great  archangel  from  his  Avarlike  toil 
Surceased\  and  glad,  as  hoping  here  to  end 
Intestine  war  in  heaven,  the  arch-foe  subdued. 

5.  Now  waved  their  fiery  swords,  and  in  the  air 
Made  horrid  circles;  two  broad  suns  their  shields 
Blazed  opposite,  while  expectation  stood 

In  horror:  from  each  hand  with  speed  retired. 
Where  erst  was  thickest  fight,  the  angelic  throng. 
And  left  large  fields,  unsafe  within  the  wind 
Of  such  commotion;  such  as,  to  set  forth 
Great  things  by  small,  if,  nature’s  concord  broke, 
Among  the  constellations  war  were  sprung. 

Two  planets^^  rushing  from  aspect  * malign 

Of  fiercest  opposition,  in  mid-sky 

Should  combat,  and  their  jarring  spheres  confound 


* Observe  the  improper  pronunciation  of  the  word  “ aspect,”  re- 
quired by  the  poetic  accent.  In  this  case,  an  equal  degree  of  force 
may  be  given  to  each  syllable. 


134 


NEW  SIXTH  llEADEll. 


XLII.— PAUL  S DEFENSE  BEFORE  KING  AGRIPPA. 

From  the  Bible. 

[This  should  be  read  in  a medium  tone,  between  high  and  low.] 

1.  Then  said  Agrippa  unto  Paul:  Thou  art  permitted  to 
speak  for  thyself.  Then  Paul  stretched  forth  his  hand  and 
answered  for  himself. 

2.  I think  myself  happy,  king  Agrippa,  because  I shall 
answer  for  myself,  this  day,  before  thee,  touching  all  the 
things  whereof  I am  accused  of  the  Jews';  especially,  be- 
cause I know  thee  to  be  expert  in  all  customs  and  ques- 
tions which  are  among  the  Jews:  wherefore  I beseech  thee 
to  hear  me  patiently.  My  manner  of  life  from  my  youth', 
which  was  at  the  first  among  mine  own  nation  at  Jerusalem', 
know  all  the  Jews;  who  knew  me  from  the  beginning ^ if 
they  would  testify,  that  after  the  straitest  sect  of  our  re- 
ligion, I lived  a Pharisee. 

3.  And  now,  I stand  and  am  judged  for  the  hope  of  the 
promise  made  of  Grod  unto  our  fathers';  unto  which  promise 
our  twelve  tribes,  instantly  serving  God  day  and  night,  hope 
to  come.  For  which  hope’s  sake,  king  Agrippa',  I am 
accused  of  the  Jews.  Why  should  it  be  thought  a thing 
incredible  with  you,  that  God  should  raise  the  dead}?  I 
verily  thought  with  myself,  that  I ought  to  do  many  things 
contrary  to  the  name  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  Which  things 
I also  did}  in  J erusalem : and  many  of  the  saints  did  I shut 
up  in  prison,  having  received  authority  from  the  chief 
priests,  and  when  they  were  put  to  death,  I gave  my  voice 
against  them. 

4.  And  I punished  them  oft  in  every  synagogue,  and 
compelled  them  to  blaspheme;  and,  being  exceedingly  mad 
against  them,  I persecuted  them  even  unto  strange  cities. 
Whereupon,  as  I went  to  Damascus,  with  authority  and  com- 
mission from  the  chief  priests,  at  midday,  0 King',  I saw 
in  the  way  a light  from  heaven,  above  the  brightness  of  the 
sun,  shining  round  about  me  and  them  which  journeyed 
with'  me.  And  when  we  were  all  fallen  to  the  earth,  I 
heard  a voice  speaking  unto  me,  and  saying  in  the  Hebrew 
tongue',  Saul',  Saul',  why  pcrsecutest  thou  me'?  it  is  hard 


ECLECTIC  SERIES 


135 


for  thee  to  kick  against  the  goads.  And  I said',  Who  art' 
thou,  Lord'? 

5.  And  he  said',  I am  Jesus',  whom  thou  persecutest. 
But  rise  and  stand  upon  thy  feet:  for  I have  appeared  unto 
thee  for  this  purpose,  to  make  thee  a minister  and  a witness 
both  of  these  things  which  thou  hast  seen,  and  of  those 
things  in  the  which  I will  appear'  unto  thee ; delivering  thee 
from  the  people  and  from  the  Grentiles,  unto  whom  now  I 
send  thee,  to  open  their  eyes,  and  to  turn  them  from  dark- 
ness to  light,  and  from  the  power  of  Satan  unto  God;  that 
they  may  receive  forgiveness  of  sins,  and  inheritance  among 
them  which  are  sanctified,  by  faith  that  is  in  me. 

6.  Whereupon,  0 king  Agrippa',  I was  not  dhohedient 
unto  the  heavenly  vision;  but  showed  first  unto  them  of 
Damascus,  and  at  Jerusalem,  and  throughout  all  the  coasts 
of  Judea,  and  then  to  the  Gentiles,  that  they  should  repent 
and  turn  to  God,  and  do  works  meet  for  repentance.  For 
these  causes  the  Jews  caught  me  in  the  temple,  and  went 
about  to  kill  me.  Having,  therefore,  obtained  help  of  God', 
I continue  unto  this  day,  witnessing  both  to  small'  and 
great',  saying  none  other  things  than  those  which  the 
prophets  and  Moses  did  say  should  come ; that  Christ  should 
suffer',  and  that  he  should  be  the  first  that  should  rise  from 
the  dead,  and  should  show  light  unto  the  people  and  to  the 
Gentiles. 

7.  And  as  he  thus  spake  fgr  himself,  Festus  said  with  a 
loud  voice,  Paul,  thou  art  beside"  thyself,  much  learning  hath 
made  thee  mad.  But  he  said,  I am  not  mad',  most  noble 
Festus',  but  speak  forth  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness. 
For  the  king  hnowetJi"  of  these  things,  before  whom  I speak 
freely;  for  I am  persuaded  that  none  of  these  things  are 
hidden  from  him;  for  this  thing  was  not  done  in  a corner'. 
King  Agrippa',  believest  thou  the  prophets'?  I knoid"  that 
thou  believest. 

8.  Then  Agrippa  said  unto  Paul' ; Almost  thou  per- 
suadest  me  to  be  a Christian.  And  Paul  said,  I would  to 
God,  that  not  only  thou^  but  also  all  that  hear  me  this  day^ 
were  both  almost'  and  altogether^  such  as  1 am,  except  these 
bonds.  And  when  he  had  thus  spoken,  the  king  rose  up, 
and  the  governor  and  Bernice,  and  they  that  sat  with  them. 


136 


NEV/'  SIXTH  READER. 


And  when  they  were  gone  aside,  they  talked  between  them- 
selves, saying : This  man  doeth  nothing  worthy  of  death 
or  of  bonds.  Then  said  Agrippa  unto  Festus : This  man 
might  have  been  set  at  liberty^  if  he  had  not  appealed  unto 
Caesar. 


XLIII— HENRY  V.  TO  HIS  TROOPS. 

From  Shakspeare. 

[This  lesson  requires  a high  hey.] 

1 Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends^,  once  more; 
Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead. 

In  peacc^  there’s  nothing  so  becomes  a man 
As  modest  stillness  and  humility: 

But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 

Then^  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger^; 

Stiffen  the  sinews',  summon  up  the  blood', 

Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard-favored  rage; 

Then^  lend  the  eye  a terrible  aspect; 

Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head 
Like  the  brass  cannon;  let  the  brow  o’erwhelm  it 
As  fearfully  as  doth  a galled  rock 
O’erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base, 

Swilled  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 

2.  Now  set  the  teeth}^  and  stretch  the  nostril  loide^ 

Hold  hard  the  breathh^  and  hend^  up  every  spirit 

To  its  full  height!  Oid,  oid^  you  noblest  English^, 
Whose  blood  is  fet  from  fathers  of  war-proof  I 
Fathers,  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 

Have,  in  these  parts,  from  morn  till  even,  fought, 

And  sheathed  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument; 

Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood. 

And  teach  them  how  to  war. 

3.  And  ?yo?q  good  yeomen^, 

Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show'  us  here 
The  mettle  of  your  pasture ; let  us  swear 

That  you  are  worth  your  breeding';  which  I doubt  not, 
For  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base, 

That  hath  not  noble  luster  in  your  eyes, 

I see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips, 

Straining  upon  the  vStart.  The  game’s  afoot'; 

Follow  your  spirit':  and,  upon  this  charge. 

Cry — “troc?  for  Harry ^ England^  and  8t.  George  ! 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


137 


XLIV.— HECTOR  S ATTACK  ON  THE  GRECIAN  WALLS. 
From  Pope’s  Translation  of  Homer. 

Alexander  Pope  was  born  in  London,  in  1688,  and  received  an  excellent 
private  education.  His  whole  life  was  devoted  to  literary  pursuits,  and  he 
soon  became  the  first  poet  of  his  day.  He  died  at  Twickenham,  in  1744. 

1.  Then  godlike  Hector  and  his  troops  contend 
To  force  the  ramparts  and  the  gates  to  rend; 

Nor  Troy  could  conquer,  nor  the  Greeks  would  yield, 

Till  great  Sarpedon  towered  amid  the  field. 

In  arms  he  shines,  conspicuous  from  afar. 

And  hears  aloft  his  ample  shield  in  air. 

And,  while  two  pointed  javelins  arm  his  hands, 

Majestic  moves  along,  and  leads  his  Lycian  hands. 

2.  (^)  So,  pressed  with  hunger,  from  the  mountain’s  brow, 
Descends  a lion'  on  the  flocks  below; 

So,  stalks  the  lordly  savage  o’er  the  plain, 

In  sullen  majesty  and  stern  disdain. 

In  vain,  loud  mastiffs  bay  him  from  afar. 

And  shepherds  gall  him  with  an  iron  war; 

Regardless,  furious,  he  pursues  his  way. 

He  foams',  he  roars',  he  rends  the  panting  prey. 

3.  Unmoved,  the  embodied  Greeks  their  fury  dare. 

And  fixed,  support  the  weight  of  all  the  war' ; 

Nor  could  the  Greeks  repel  the  Lycian  powers^, 

Nor  the  bold  Lycians  force  the  Grecian  towers'. 

4.  (1)  As,  on  the  confines  of  adjoining  grounds. 

Two  stubborn  swains'  with  blows  dispute  their  bounds  j 
They  tug^,  they  sweat';  but  neither  gain  nor  yield 
One  foot,  one  inch  of  the  contested  field: 

Thus,  obstinate  to  death,  they  fighU,  they  fall' ; 

Nor  these  can  keep^^  nor  those  can  win^  the  wall. 

Their  manly  breasts  are  pierced  with  many  a wound, 

Loud  strokes  are  heard,  and  rattling  arms  resound; 

The  copious  slaughter  covers  all  the  shore. 

And  the  high  ramparts  drop  with  human  gore. 

5.  {!)  As  when  two  scales  are  charged  with  doubtful  loads, 
From  side  to  side  the  trembling  balance  nods, 

(While  some  laborious  matron,  just  and  poor. 

With  nice  exactness  weighs  her  woolly  store), 


138 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Till,  poised  aloft,  the  resting  beam  suspends 
Each  equal  AveighT;  nor  this^^  nor  thaf'  descends. 

So  stood  the  war,  till  Hector’s  matchless  might 
With  fates  prevailing,  turned  the  scale  of  fight. 

6.  {h)  Fierce  as  a whirlwind  up  the  walls  he  flies. 

And  fires  his  hosts  with  loud  repeated  cries : 

“Advance,  ye  Trojans^!  lend  your  valiant  hands'; 

Haste  to  the  fleet',  and  toss  the  blazing  brands'!” 

They  hear',  they  run';  and  gathering  at  his  call, 

Raise  scaling  engines,  and  ascend  the  wall; 

Around  the  works  a wood  of  glittering  spears 
Shoots  up,  and  all  the  rising  host  appears. 

7.  A ponderous  stone'  bold  Hector  heaved  to  throw, 

Pointed  above/,  and  rough  and  gross  below'; 

Not  two  strong  men  the  enormous  weight  could  raise, 
Such  men  as  live  in  these  degenerate  days. 

A^et  this^  as  easy  as  a swain  could  bear 
The  snowy  fleece,  he  tossed  and  shook  in  air; 

Thus  armed,  before  the  folded  gates  he  came, 
or  massy  substance,  and  stupendous  frame, 

With  iron  bars  and  brazen  hinges  strong. 

On  lofty  beams  of  solid  timber  hung; 

Then,  thundering  through  the  planks  with  forceful  sway, 
Drives  the  sharp  rock';  the  solid  beams  give  way'; 

The  folds  are  shattered';  from  the  crackling  door 
Leap  the  resounding  bars,  the  flying  hinges  roar. 

8.  Now  rushing  in,  the  furious  chief  appears. 

Gloomy  as  night,  and  shakes  tAvo  shining  spears : 

A dreadful  gleam  from  his  bright  armor  came, 

And  from  his  eyeballs  flashed  the  living  flame. 

He  moA^es  a god',  resistless  in  his  course. 

And  seems  a match  for  more  than  mortal  force. 

Then  pouring  after,  through  the  gaping  space, 

A tide  of  Trojans  flows,  and  fills  the  place; 

The  Greeks  behold',  they  tremble,  and  they  fly' ; 

The  shore  is  heaped  with  death,  and  tumult  rends  the  sky 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


139 


XLV.— RIENZrS  ADDRESS  TO  THE  ROMANS. 

From  Miss  Mitford. 

[This  Lesson  is  markorl  for  inflection,  emphasia,  and  modulation,  and  is 
an  admirable  exercise  for  them  all.] 

1.  1 COME  not  here  to  talk^.  A^ou  know  too  well 
The  story  of  our  thralldom.  We  are — slaves^ ! 

The  bright  sun  rises  to  his  course  and  lights 

A race  of — slaves"" ! He  sets,  and  his  last  beams 
Fall  on  a — slaye"^ ; not  s^ich  as  swept  along 
By  the  full  tide  of  power,  the  conqueror  led 
To  crimson  glory  and  undying  fame ; 

(1)  But — base"' — ignoble"' — slaves;  slaves  to  a horde 
Of  petty  tyrants'^,  feudal  despots'^,  lords, 

Hichf  in  some  dozen  paltry  villages"' ; 

Strong^  in  some  hundred  spcarmeti^ ; only  greaf 
In  that  strange  spell ; — a na^ie'. 

2.  Each  hour;  dark  fraud. 

Or  open  rapine,  or  protected  murder, 

Cries  out  againsD  them,  {h)  But  this  very  day, 

An  honest  man,  my  neighbor, — there  he  stands^, — 

Was  struck"" — struck^  like  a dog^^  by  one  who  wore 
The  badge  of  Ursini;  because,  forsooth. 

He  tossed  not  high  his  ready  cap  in  air. 

Nor  lifted  up  his  voice  in  servile  shouts. 

At  sight  of  that  great  ruffian ! {hh)  Be  we  men^, 

And  suffer  suc¥  dishonor?  men^,  and  wash  not 

The  stain  away  in  blood'  f (1)  Such  shames  are  common. 

I have  known  deeper"'  wrongs ; that  speak''  to  ye, 

(//)  I had  a brother"^  once.^ — a gracious  boy. 

Full  of  all  gentleness,  of  calmest  hope. 

Of  sweet  and  quiet  joy, — there  was  the  look 
Of  heaven  upon  his  face,  which  limners  give 
To  the  beloved  disciple. 

3.  How  I loved"" 

That  gracious  boy'' ! Younger  by  fifteen  years', 

Brother  at  once,  and  son ! He  left  my  side, 

A summer  bloom  on  his  fair  cheek';  a smile 
Parting  his  innocent  lips'.  In  one  short  hour, 

That  pretty,  harmless  boy  was  slain"' ! f saw 

The  corse,  the  mangled  corse,  and  then  {h)  I cried 

For  vengeance""  \ {hJi)  Rouse',  ye  Romans!  rouse',  yo  si.aves? 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 

Have  ye  brave  sons^f  Look  in  the  next  fierce  brawl 
To  see  them  die^.  Have  ye  fair  daughters^  ? Look 
To  see  them  live,  torn  from  your  arms^^  distained^^ 
Dishonored^ ; and  if  ye  dare  call  for  justice^ 

Be  answered  by  the  lasK^, 

(1)  A'et  this — is  Rome^ 

That  sat  on  her  seven  hills,  and  from  her  throne 
Of  beauty,  ruled  the  world  I and  we  are  Romans 
Why,  in  that  elder  day,  to  be  a Roman, 

Was  greater  than  a king  I 

And  once  again, — 

Hear^  me,  ye  walls^  that  echoed  to  the  tread 
Of  either  Brutus ! Once  again^  1 swear ^ 

The  eternal  city  shall  he  free. 


XLVL— THE  BROKEN  HEART— A SKETCH. 

From  Irving. 

Washington  Irving,  born  in  1783,  ranks  among  the  first  of  American 
authors.  In  early  life,  he  followed  literary  pursuits  only  as  an  amuse- 
ment, but  meeting  with  reverses,  he  devoted  himself  to  literature  as 
a profession.  Late  in  life,  he  purchased  an  old  Dutch  Mansion,  on  the 
Hudson,  which  he  fitted  up,  and  in  which  he  resided  until  his  death, 
in  1859. 

1.  Every  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young 
Emmet,  the  Irish  patriot;  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon  for- 
gotten. His  fate  made  a deep  impression  on  public  sympathy. 
During  the  troubles  in  Ireland  he  was  tried,  condemned,  and 
executed,  on  a charge  of  treason.  He  was  so  young',  so  in- 
telligent', so  generous',  so  brave',  so  every  thing  that  we  are 
apt  to  like  in  a young  man.  His  conduct  under  trial,  too, 
was  so  lofty  and  intrepid.  The  noble  indignation  with  which 
he  repelled  the*  charge  of  treason  against  his  country,  the  elo- 
quent vindication  of  his  name,  and  his  pathetic  appeal  to 
posterity,  in  the  hopeless  hour  of  condemnation,  all  these 
entered  deeply  into  every  generous  bosom',  and  even  his  ene- 
mies' lamented  the  stern  policy  that  dictated  his  execution. 

2.  But  there  was  one"  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes',  he 
had  won  the  affections  of  a beautiful  and  interesting  girl',  the 


140 

4. 

(A) 

5. 

(AA) 


J:  C L E C T I C SERIES. 


141 


daughter  of  a late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him 
with  the  disinterested  fervor  of  a woman’s  first  and  early  love. 
When  every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against  him ; when 
blasted  in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around 
his  name',  she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for  his  very  suf- 
ferings. If,  then,  his  fate  could  awaken  the  sympathy  even 
of  his  foes',  what  must  have  been  the  agony  of  her',  whose 
whole  soul  was  occupied  by  his  image  ! Let  those  tell  who 
have  had  the  portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed  between 
them  and  the  being  they  most  loved  on  earth' — who  have  sat 
at  its  threshold,  as  one  shut  out  in  a cold  and  lonely  world, 
whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and  loving  had  departed. 

3.  But  then  the  horrors  of  such'  a grave ! so  frightful',  so 
dishonored' ! there  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  on,  that 
could  soothe  the  pang  of  separation',  none  of  those  tender, 
though  melancholy  circumstances,  which  endear  the  parting 
scene',  nothing  to  melt  sorrow  into  those  blessed  tears,  sent 
like  the  dews  of  heaven  to  revive  the  heart  in  the  parting 
hour  of  anguish. 

4.  To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had 
incurred  her  father’s  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attach- 
ment, and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could 
the  sympathy  and  kind  offices  of  friends  have  reached  a spirit 
so  shocked  and  driven  in  by  horror,  she  would  have  expe- 
rienced no  want  of  consolation' ; for  the  Irish  are  a people  of 
quick  and  generous  sensibilities.  The  most  delicate  and  cher- 
ishing attentions  were  paid  her  by  families  of  wealth  and  dis- 
tinction. She  was  led  into  society,  and  they  tried  by  all  kinds 
of  occupation  and  amusement  to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean 
her  from  the  tragical  story  of  her  love. 

5.  But  it  was  all  in  vain.  There  are  some  strokes  of 
calamity  which  scathe  and  scorch  the  soul,  which  penetrate 
to  the  vital  seat  of  happiness,  and  blast  it,  never  again  to 
put  forth  bud  or  blossom.  She  never  objected  to  frequent 
the  haunts  of  pleasure,  but  was  as  much  alone  there  as  in 
the  depths  of  solitude' ; walking  about  in  a sad  reverie, 
apparently  unconscious  of  the  world  around  her.  She  car- 
ried with  her  an  inward  woe,  that  mocked  at  all  the  bland- 
ishments of  friendship,  and  “heeded  not  the  song  of  the 
charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely.” 

12 


142 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


G.  The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a 
masquerade.  There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretch- 
edness more  striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such'  a 
scene;  to  find  it  wandering,  like  a specter,  lonely  and  joyless, 
where  all  around  is  gay',  to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the  trap- 
pings of  mirth,  and  looking  so  wan  and  woe-begone,  as  if  it 
had  tried  in  vain  to  cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a momentary 
forgetfulness  of  sorrow.  After  strolling  through  the  splendid 
rooms  and  giddy  crowd  with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction,  she 
sat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of  an  orchestra,  and,  looking 
about  for  some  time  with  a vacant  air,  that  showed  her  in-, 
sensibility  to  the  garish  scene,  she  began,  with  the  capricious- 
ness of  a sickly  heart,  to  warble  a little  plaintive  air.  She 
had  an  exquisite  voice ; but  on  this  occasion  it  was  so  simple, 
so  touching',  it  breathed  forth  such  a soul  of  wretchedness, 
that  she  drew  a crowd  mute  and  silent  around  her,  and  melted 
every  one  into  tears. 

7.  The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender,  could  not  but  ex- 
cite great  interest  in  a country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm. 
It  completely  won  the  heart  of  a brave  officer,  who  paid  his 
addresses  to  her',  and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead 
could  not  but  prove  affectionate  to  the  living.  She  declined 
his  attentions',  for  her  thoughts  were  irrevocably  engrossed 
by  the  memory  of  her  former  lover.  He,  however,  persisted 
m his  suit.  He  solicited  not  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem. 
He  was  assisted  by  her  conviction  of  his  worth,  and  her  sense 
of  her  own  destitute  and  dependent  situation',  for  she  was 
existing  on  the  kindness  of  friends.  In  a word,  he  at  length 
succeeded  in  gaining  her  hand,  though  with  the  solemn 
assurance  that  her  heart  was  unalterably  another’s. 

8.  He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a change 
of  scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  her  early  woes. 
She  was  an  amiable  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort 
to  be  a bappy  one ; but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and 
devouring  melancholy  that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul. 
She  wasted  away  in  a slow  but  hopeless  decline',  and,  at 
length,  sank  into  the  grave,  the  victim  of  a broken  heart. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


14S 


XLVII.— THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 
From  Whittier. 

1.  Look^  on  him!  through  his  dungeon  grate; 

Feebty  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 

Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 

His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head; 

His  bloodless  cheek  is  seamed  and  hard; 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard; 

And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  disheveled  locks  of  snow. 

2.  No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows. 

And  yet  the  winter’s  breath  is  chill: 

And  o’er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague-thrill! 

SilenP,  save  ever  and  anoiU, 

A sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan^, 
Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 
Of  the  old  sufferer’s  bearded  lip; 

O,  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 
Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate. 

3.  Just  God!  why  lies  that  old  man  there? 

A murderer  shares  his  prison  bed. 

Whose  eyeballs  through  his  horrid  hair^, 
Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red ; 

And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear^ ; 

And,  or  in  wakefulness^  or  sleep^. 

Nerve,  flesh,  and  fiber  thrill  and  creep, 
Whene’er  that  ruffian’s  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him! 

4.  What  has  the  gray-haired  prisoner  done  ? 

Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with  gore? 
Not  so^:  his  crime’s  a fouler^  one; 

God  made  the  old  man  poor! 

For  this^  he  shares  a felon’s''  cell. 

The  fittest  earthly  type  of  helP ! 

For  this^  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader’s  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost. 

His  hlood-gaincd  liberty — is  lost! 


144 


NEW  SIXTH  HEADER. 


5.  And  so,  for  such  a place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  poured  thy  blood  as  rain 
On  Concord’s  field,  and  Bunker’s  crest. 

And  Saratoga’s^  plain? 

Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars^, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon’s  iron  bars; 

It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth\  to  see 
Yon  monument'^  upreared  to  thee^; 

Piled  granite^  and  a prison  celD! 

The  land  jepays  thy  service  well ! 

6.  Go^,  ring  the  bells'',  and  fire  the  guns^, 

And  fling  the  starry  banner  ouP; 

Shout'’  ‘ Freedom  ! ’ till  your  lisping  ones 
Give  back  their  cradle-shout; 

Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame; 

Still  let  the  poet’s  strain  be  heard. 

With  ^ glory'  for  each  second  word. 

And  every  thing  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  ‘ our  glorious  liberty ! ’ 

7.  But  when  the  patriot  cannon  jars 

That  prison’s  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 

And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stan 
Rise  on  the  wind,  and  fall; 

Think  ye  that  prisoner’s  aged  ear 
Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer? 

Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 
Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry? 

Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb. 
What  is  your  carnival  to  him  f 

8.  Down  with  the  law  that  binds  him  thus! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 
Of  God  and  human  kind! 

Open  the  prisoner’s  living  tomb\ 

And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code, 

To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God; 

No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty’s  hand! 


Bunker  Hill  Monument. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


145 


f 

XLVIIL— LA  FAYETTE  AND  ROBERT  RAIKES. 

From  Grtmke. 

Thomas  S.  Grimkk  was  a distinguished  lawyer  of  Charleston,  South 
Carolina.  He  was  a man  of  great  learning,  pure  and  high-toned  re- 
ligious sentiment,  and  remarkable  eloquenee. 

La  Fayette  was  a French  nobleman,  who  gave  his  services  and  spent 
his  fortune  in  aid  of  America  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  which  termi- 
nated in  1783.  In  1824  he  revisited  this  country,  and  was  received  with 
an  enthusiasm  seldom  equaled. 

[Extract  from  an  address  delivered  at  a Sunday-School  Celebration.] 

1.  It  is  but  a few  years,  since  we  beheld  the  most  singular 
and  memorable  pageant  in  the  annals  of  time.  It  was  a pageant 
more  sublime  and  affecting  than  the  progress  of  Elizabeth 
through  England  after  the  defeat  of  the  Armada ; than  the  re- 
turn of  Francis  I.  from  a Spanish  prison  to  his  own  beautiful 
France;  than  the  daring  and  rapid  march  of  the  conqueror  at 
Austerlitz  from  Frejus  to  Paris.  It  was  a pageant,  indeed, 
rivaled  only  in  the  elements  of  the  grand  and  the  pathetic, 
by  the  journey  of  our  own  Washington,  through  the  different 
States.  Need  I say  that  I allude  to  the  visit  of  La  Fayette 
to  America'? 

2.  But  La  Fayette  returned  to  the  land  of  the  dead^^  rather 
than  of  the  living'.  How  many  who  had  fought  with  him  in 
the  war  of  ’76,  had  died  in  arms,  and  lay  buried  in  the  grave 
of  the  soldier  or  the  sailor ! How  many  who  had  survived 
the  perils  of  battle,  on  the  land  and  the  ocean,  had  expired 
on  the  death-bed  of  peace,  in  the  arms  of  mother',  sister', 
daughter',  wife'!  Those  who  survived  to  celebrate  with  him 
the  jubilee  of  1825,  were  stricken  in  years,  and  hoary-headed; 
many  of  them  infirm  in  health ; many  the  victims  of  poverty', 
or  misfortune',  or  affliction'.  And,  how  venerable  that  pat- 
riotic company';  how  sublime  their  gathering  through  all 
the  land';  how  joyful  their  welcome,  how  affecting  their  fare- 
well' to  that  beloved  stranger ! 

3.  But  the  pageant  has  fled',  and  the  very  materlaW  that 
gave  it  such  depth  of  interest,  are  rapidly  perishing' : and  a 
humble^  perhaps  a nameless  grave,  shall  hold  the  last  soldier 
of  the  Bevolution.  And  shall  they  ever  meet  again?  Shall 
the  patriots  and  soldiers  of  ’76^  the  Immortal  Band,  as 


146 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


history  styles  them,  meet  again  in  the  amaranthine  bowers 
of  spotless  purity,  of  perfect  bliss,  of  eternal  glory?  Shall 
theirs  be  the  Christian’s  heaven,  the  kingdom  of  the  Re- 
deemer? The  heathen  points  to  his  fabulous  Elysium  as 
the  paradise  of  the  soldier  and  the  sage.  But  the  Christian^ 
bows  down  with  tears  and  sighs,  for  he  knows  that  not  many 
of  the  patriots,  and  statesmen,  and  warriors  of  Christian 
lands,  are  the  disciples  of  Jesus. 

4.  But  we  turn  from  La  Fayette,  the  favorite  of  the  old 
and  the  new  world,  to  the  peaceful  benevolence,  the  unambi- 
tious achievements  of  Robert  Raihes.  Let  us  imagine  him 
to  have  been  still  alive',  and  to  have  visited  our  land,  to 
celebrate  this  day  with  us.  No  national  ships  would  have 
been  offered  to  bear  Inm',  a nation’s  guest',  in  the  pride  of 
the  star-spangled  banner',  from  the  bright  shores  of  the 
rising^  to  the  brighter  shores  of  the  setting'  sun.  No  cannon 
would  have  hailed  him'  in  the  stern  language  of  the  battle- 
field, the  fortunate  champion  of  Freedom,  in  Europe  and 
America'.  No  martial  music  would  have  welcomed  him'  in 
notes  of  rapture,  as  they  rolled  along  the  Atlantic,  and 
echoed  through  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi'.  No  military 
procession  would  have  heralded  his'  way  through  crowded 
streets,  thick-set  with  the  banner  and  the  plume,  the  glitter- 
ing saber,  and  the  polished  bayonet'.  No  cities  would  have 
called  forth  beauty  and  fashion,  wealth  and  rank,  to  honor 
him'  in  the  ball-room  and  theater.  No  states  would  have 
escorted  him'  from  boundary  to  boundary,  nor  have  sent 
their  chief  magistrate  to  do  him'  homage.  No  national  lib- 
erality would  have  allotted  to  him'  a nobleman’s  domain,  and 
princely  treasure'.  No  national  gratitude  w^ould  have  hailed 
him'  in  the  capitol  itself,  the  nation’s  guest,  because  the 
nation’s  benefactor';  and  have  consecrated  a battle-ship',  in 
memory  of  his  wounds  and  his  gallantry. 

5.  Not  such  would  have  been  the  reception  of  Robert 
Raikes,  in  the  land  of  the  Pilgrims'  and  of  Penn',  of  the 
Catholic',  the  Cavalier',  and  the  Huguenot'.  And  who 
does  not  rejoice,  that  it  would  be  impossible  thus  to  welcome 
this  primitive  Christian,  the  founder  of  Sunday-schools? 
His  heralds  would  be  the  preachers  of  the  Gospel',  and  the 
eminent  in  piety,  benevolence,  and  zeal.  His  procession 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


147 


would  number  in  its  ranks  the  messengers  of  the  Cross  and 
the  disciples  of  the  Savior',  Sunday-school  teachers  and 
white-robed  scholars.  The  tempJes  of  the  Most  High' would 
be  the  scenes  of  his'  triumph.  Homage  and  gratitude  to 
liim\  would  be  anthems  of  praise'  and  thanksgiving  to 
God'. 

6.  Parents  would  honor  him  as  more  than  a brother'; 
children  would  reverence  him  as  more  than  a father.  The 
faltering  words  of  age,  the  firm  and  sober  voice  of  manhood, 
the  silvery  notes  of  youth,  would  bless  him  as  a Christian 
patron.  The  wise  and  the  good  would  acknowledge  him 
every-where,  as  a national  benefactor',  as  a patriot  even  to  a 
land  of  strangers.  He  would  have  come  a messenger  of  peace 
to  a land''  of  peace.  No  images  of  camps,  and  sieges,  and 
battles ; no  agonies  of  the  dying  and  the  wounded ; no  shouts 
of  victory,  or  processions  of  triumph,  would  mingle  with  the 
recollections  of  the  multitude  who  welcomed  him.  They 
would  mourn  over  no  common  dangers,  trials,  and  calam- 
ities; for  the  road  of  duty  has  been  to  them  the  path  of 
pleasantness,  the  way  of  peace.  Their  memory  of  the  past 
would  be  rich  in  gratitude  to  God,  and  love  to  man ; their 
enjoyment  of  the  present  would  be  a prelude  to  heavenly 
bliss;  their  prospects  of  the  future,  bright  and  glorious  as 
faith  and  hope. 

7.  Such  was  the  reception  of  La,  Fayette^  the  warrior ; such 
would  be  that  of  Robert  Raihes'^  the  Howard  of  the  Chris- 
tian church.  And  which  is  the  nobler  benefactor,  patriot, 
and  philanthropist?  Mankind  may  admire  and  extol  La 
Fayette'  more  than  the  founder  of  the  Sunday-schools'' ; but 
religion,  philanthropy,  and  enlightened  common  sense,  must 
ever  esteem  Robert  Raikes'  the  superior  of  La  Fayette''.  His 
are  the  virtues,  the  services,  the  sacrifices  of  a more  endur- 
ing and  exalted  order  of  being.  His  counsels  and  triumphs 
belong  less  to  time'  than  to  eternity''. 

The  fame  of  La  Fayette  is  of  this'  world ; the  glory 
of  Robert  Raikes  is  of  the  Redeemer’s  everlo, sting  kingdom''. 
La  Fayette  lived  chiefly  for  his  own  age.^  and  chiefly  for  his 
and  our  country.  But  Robert  Raikes  has  lived  for  all  ages, 
and  all  countries.  Perhaps  the  historian  and  biographer  may 
never  interweave  his  name  in  the  tapestry  of  national  or  indi- 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER 


vidual  renown.  But  the  records  of  every  single  cjiurch, 
honor  him  as  a patron';  the  records  of  the  universal  Church, 
on  earth  as  in  heaven,  bless  him  as  a benefactor. 

9.  The  time  may  come  when  the  name  of  La  Fayette  will 
be  forgotten';  or  when  the  star  of  his  fame,  no  longer  glit- 
tering in  the  zenith,  shall  be  seen,  pale  and  glimmering,  on 
the  verge  of  the  horizon.  But  the  name  of  Robert  Raikes 
shall  never'^  be  forgotten ; and  the  lambent  flame  of  Ms  glory 
is  that  eternal  fire  which  rushed  down  from  heaven  to  devour 
the  sacrifice  of  Elijah.  Let  mortals  then  admire  and  imitate 
La  Fayette,  more  than  Bobert  Baikes.  But  the  just  made 
perfect,  and  the  ministering  spirits  around  the  throne  of  Grod, 
have  welcomed  him  as  a fellow-servant  of  the  same  Lord;  as 
a fellow-laborer  in  the  same  glorious  cause  of  man’s  redemp- 
tion; as  a co-heir  of  the  same  precious  promises  and  eternal 
rewards. 


XLIX.— ON  HAPPINESS  OF  TEMPER. 

From  Goldsmith. 

1.  Writers  of  every  age  have  endeavored  to  show  that 

pleasure  is  in  and  not  in  the  offered  for  our 

amusement'.  If  the  soul'  be  happily  disposed,  every  thing 
becomes  capable  of  affording  entertainment,  and  distress  will 
almost  want  a name.  Every  occurrence  passes  in  review, 
like  the  figures  of  a procession';  some  may  be  awkward, 
others'  ill-dressed' ; but  none  but  a fooP  is,  on  that  account, 
enraged  with  the  master  of  ceremonies. 

2.  I remember  to  have  once  seen  a slave,  in  a fortifica- 
tion in  Flanders,  who  appeared  no  way  touched  with  his 
situation.  He  was  maimed,  deformed,  and  chained';  obliged 
to  toil  from  the  appearance  of  day  till  night-fall',  and  con- 
demned to  this  for  life';  yet  with  all  these  circumstances 
of  apparent  wretchedness,  he  sang,  would  have  danced,  but 
that  he  wanted  a leg,  and  appeared  the  merriest,  happiest 
man  of  all  the  garrison.  What  a practical  philosopher  was 
here' ! A happy  constitution  supplied  philosophy ; and, 
though  seemingly  destitute  of  wisdom,  he  was  really  wise. 
No  reading  or  study  had  contributed  to  disenchant  the 
fairy-land  around  him.  Every  thing  furnished  him  with  an 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


149 


opportunity  of  mirth;  and  though  some  thought  him,  from 
his  insensibility,  a fool,  he  was  sucli'  an  idiot,  as  philoso- 
phers should  wish  to  imitate. 

3.  They  who,  like  that  slave,  can  place  themselves  on 
that  side  of  the  world  in  which  every  thing  appears  in  a 
pleasant  light,  will  find  something  in  every  oc'turrence,  to 
excite  their  good  humor.  The  most  calamitous  events,  either 
to  themselves'  or  others',  can  bring  no  new  affliction';  the 
world  is  to  them  a theater,  on  which  only  comedies'  are 
acted.  All  the  bustle  of  heroism  or  the  aspirations  of  am- 
bition, seem  only  to  heighten  the  absurdity  of  the  scene,  and 
make  the  humor  more  poignant.  They  feel,  in  short,  as  little 
anguish  at  their  own  distress  or  the  complaints  of  others,  as 
the  undertaker^ ^ though  dressed  in  black,  feels  sorrow  at  a 
funeral. 

4.  Of  all  the  men  I ever  read  of,  the  famous  Cardinal  de 
Retz  possessed  this  happiness  in  the  highest  degree.  When 
fortune  wore  her  angriest  look,  and  he  fell  into  the  power  of 
Cardinal  Mazarin,  his  most  deadly  enemy,  (being  confined 
a close  prisoner  in  the  castle  of  Valenciennes,)  he  never 
attempted  to  support  his  distress  by  wisdom  or  philosophy, 
for  he  pretended  to  neither.  He  only  laughed  at  himself 
and  his  persecutor',  and  seemed  infinitely  pleased  at  his  new 
situation.  In  this  mansion  of  distress,  though  denied  all 
amusements  and  even  the  conveniences  of  life,  and  entirely 
cut  off  from  all  intercourse  with  his  friends,  he  still  retained 
his  good  humor',  laughed  at  the  little  spite  of  his  enemies', 
and  carried  the  jest  so  far  as  to  write  the  life  of  his  jailer. 

5.  All  that  the  wisdom  of  the  proud  can  teach  is,  to  be 
stubborn  or  sullen  under  misfortunes.  The  Cardinal’s  ex- 
ample will  teach  us  to  be  good-humored  in  circumstance?! 
of  the  highest  affliction.  It  matters  not  whether  our  good 
humor  be  construed  by  others  into  insensibility' or  idiotisni'; 
it  is  happiness  to  ourselves';  and  none  but  a fool  could 
measure  his  satisfaction  by  what  the  world'"  thinks  of  it. 

6.  The  happiest  fellow  I ever  knew,  was  of  the  number 
of  those  good-natured  creatures,  that  are  said  to  do  no  harm 
to  any  body  but  themselves.  Whenever  he  fell  into  any 
misery,  he  called  it  “seeing  life.”  If  his  head  was  broken 
by  a chairman,  or  his  pocket  picked  by  a sharper,  he  com- 

13 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


forted  hittiself  by  imitating  the  Hibernian  dialect  of  the  one, 
or  the  more  fashionable  cant  of  the  other.  Nothing:  came 
amiss'  to  him.  His  inattention  to  money  matters  had  con- 
cerned his  father  to  such  a degree,  that  all  intercession  of 
friends  was  fruitless.  The  old  gentleman  was  on  his  death- 
bed. The  whole  family  (and  Dick  - among  the  number) 
gathered  around  him. 

7.  leave  my  second  son,  Andrew,”  said  the  expiring 
miser,  “my  whole  estate^;  and  desire  him  to  be  frugal.” 
Andrew,  in  a sorrowful  tone',  (as  is  usual  on  such  occasions',) 
prayed  heaven  to  prolong  his  life  and  health,  to  enjoy  it  him- 
self. “ I recommend  Simon,  my  third  son',  to  the  care  of  his 
elder  brother',  and  leave  him,  besides,  four  thousand  pounds.” 
“Ah,  father'!  ” cried  Simon',  (in  great  affliction,  to  be  sure',) 
“may  heaven  give  you  life  and  health  to  enjoy  it  yourself'!  ” 
At  last,  turning  to  poor  Dick : “ As  for  you,  you  have  always 
been  a sad  dog' ; you  ’ll  never  come  to  good',  you  ’ll  never  be 
rich';  I leave  you  a shilling  to  buy  a halter ^ “ Ah,  father'!  ” 
cries  Dick,  without  any  emotion',  ‘‘‘‘May  heaven  give  you  life  and 
health  to  enjoy  it  yourself!  ” 


L.— THE  FORTUNE-TELLER. 

From  Mackenzie. 

1.  Harley  sat  down  on  a large  stone,  by  the  wayside,  to 
take  a pebble  from  his  shoe,  when  he  saw,  at  some  distance, 
a heggar^  approaching  him.  He  had  on  a loose  sort  of  coat, 
mended  with  different  colored  rags,  among  which  the  blue  and 
russet  were  predominant.  He  had  a short,  knotty  stick  in  his 
hand ; and  on  the  top  of  it  was  stuck  a ram’s  horn ; he  wore 
no  shoes,  and  his  stockings  had  entirely  lost  that  part  of  them 
which  would  have  covered  his  feet  and  ankles ; in  his  face, 
however,  was  the  plump  appearance  of  good  humor ; he 
walked  a good  round  pace,  and  a crook-legged  dog  trotted 
at  his  heels. 

2.  “Our  delicacies,”  said  Harley  to  himself,  are  fan- 
tastic ; they  are  not  in  nature ! That  heggo.r'  walks  over  the 
sharjyest  of  these  stones  barefooted^  whilst  /'  have  lost  the 
most  delightful  dream  in  the  world,  from  the  smallest  of  them 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


151 


happening  to  get  into  my  shoe"'^  The  beggar  had  by  this 
time  come  up,  and  pulling  off  a piece  of  a hat,  asked  charity' 
of  Harley.  The  dog  began  to  beg  too.  It  was  impossible  to 
resist  both;  and,  in  truth,  the  want  of  shoes  and  stockings 
had  made  both  unnecessary',  for  Harley  had  destined  six- 
pence for  him  before. 

3.  The  beggar  on  receiving  it,  poured  forth  blessings 
without  number';  and,  with  a sort  of  smile  on  his  counte- 
nance, said  to  Harley  “that  if  he  wanted  to  have  his  fortune 
told'” — Harley  turned  his  eye  briskly  upon  the  beggar';  it 
was  an  unpromising  look  for  the  subject  of  a prediction',  and 
silenced  the  prophet  immediately.  “ I would  much  rather 
learn,”  said  Harley,  “what  it  is  in  your  power"  to  tell  me. 
Your  trade  must  be  an  entertaining  one;  sit  down  on  this 
stone,  and  let  me  know  something  of  your  profession  ; I have  ofL 
en  thought  of  turning  fortune-teller  for  a week  or  two,  myself.” 

4.  “Master',”  replied  the  beggar',  “I  like  your  frankness 
much';  for  I had  the  humor  of  plain  dealing  in  me  from  a 
child ; but  there  is  no  doing  with  it  in  this  world ; we  must 
do  as  we  can ; and  lying  is,  as  you  call  it,  my  profession. 
But  I was  in  some  sort  forced'  to  the  trade,  for  I once  dealt 
in  telling  the  truth.  I was  a laborer,  sir,  and  gained  as  much  as 
to  make  me  live.  I never  laid  by',  indeed ; for  I was  reckoned 
a piece  of  a wag',  and  your  wags,  I take  it,  are  seldom  rich, 
Mr.  Harley.”  “So,”  said  Harley,  “you  seem  to  know  me.” 
“ Ay',  there  are  few  folks  in  the  country  that  I dont  know 
something'"  of.  How  should  I tell  fortunes'  else?”  “True'; 
but  go  on  with  your  story';  you  were  a laborer',  you  say, 
and  a wag';  your  industry,  I suppose,  you  left  with  your 
oldi"  trade;  but  your  humor  you  preserved  to  be  of  use  to 
you  in  your  new.'' 

5.  “ What  signifies  sadness',  sir?  A man  grows  lean’  on ’t. 
But  I was  brought  to  my  idleness  by  degrees;  sickness  first 
disabled  me,  and  it  went  against  my  stomach  to  work  ever 
after.  But  in  truth  I was  for  a long  time  so  weak,  that  I 
spit  blood  whenever  I attempted  to  work.  I had  no  relation 
living,  and  I never  kept  a friend  above  a week  when  I was 
able  to  johe.  Thus  I Wcis  forced  to  beg  my  bread,  and  a 
sorry  trade  I have  found'  it,  Mr.  Harley'.  I told  all  my  misfor- 
tunes truly,  but  they  were  seldom  believed;  and  the  few  who 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


gave  me  a half-penny  as  they  passed,  did  it  with  a shake  of 
the  head,  and  an  injunction  not  to  trouble  them  with  a long 
story.  In  short,  I found  that  people  don’t  care  to  give  alms 
without  some  secui'ity^  for  their  money ; such  as  a wooden  leg"^ 
or  a withered  arm"^  for  example.  So  I changed^  my  plan,  and 
^instead  of  telling  my  oion  misfortunes^  began  to  prophesy  hap- 
piness to  others'". 

6.  “This  I found  by  much  the  better Vay.  Folks  will 
always  listen  when  the  tale  is  their  own',  and  of  many  who 
say  they  do  not  believe  in  fortune-telling,  I have  known  few 
on  whom  it  had  not  a very  sensible  effect.  I pick  up  the 
names  of  their  acquaintance';  amours  and  little  squabbles 
are  easily  gleaned  from  among  servants  and  neighbors';  and 
indeed,  people  themselves'"  are  the  best  intelligencers  in  the 
world  for  our  purpose.  They  dare  not  puzzle  us  for  their 
owii"  sakes,  for  every  one  is  anxious  to  hear  what  they  wish 
to  believe ; and  they  who  repeat  it,  to  laugh  at  it  when  they 
have  done,  are  generally  more  serious  than  their  hearers  are 
apt  to  imagine.  With  a tolerably  good  memory,  and  some 
share  of  cunning,  I succeed  reasonably  well  as  a fortune- 
teller. With  this,  and  showing  the  tricks  of  that  dog,  I 
make  shift  to  pick  up  a livelihood. 

7.  “ My  trade  is  none  of  the  most  honest,  yet  people  are  not 
much  cheated  after  all,  who  give  a few  half-pence  for  a pros- 
pect of  happiness,  which  I have  heard  some  persons  say,  is 
all  a man  can  arrive  at,  in  this'  world.  But  I must  bid  you 
good-day',  sir;  for  I have  three  miles  to  walk  before  noon, 
to  inform  some  boarding-school  young  ladies,  whether  their 
husbands  are  to  be  peers  of  the  realm,  or  captains  in  the  army' ; 
a question  which  I promised  to  answer  them  by  that  time.” 

8;  Harley  had  drawn  a shilling  from  his  pocket';  but 
Virtue  bade  him  to  consider  on  whom  he  was  going  to  be- 
stow'it.  Virtue  held  back  his  arm';  but  a milder  form,  a 
younger  sister  of  Virtue’s,  not  so  severe  as  Virtue,  nor  so 
serious  as  Pity,  smiled'  upon  him ; his  fingers  lost  their  com- 
pression ; nor  did  Virtue'  appear  to  catch  the  money  as  it 
fell.  It  had  no  sooner  reached  the  ground,  than  the  watch- 
ful cur  (a  trick  he  had  been  taught)  snapped  it  up ; . and^ 
contrary  to  the  most  approved  method  of  stewardship,  de- 
livered it  immediately  into  the  hands  of  his  master. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


153 


LI.  -SATAN,  SIN,  AND  DEATH. 

From  Milton. 

[The  following  lesson  requires  variety  of  tone.] 

1.  Meanwhile,  the  adversary  of  God  and  man^ 

Satan^,  with  thoughts  inflamed  of  highest  design, 

Puts  on  swift  wings,  and  toward  the  gates  of  hell 
Explores  his  solitary  flight' : sometimes 

He  scours  the  vighf coast,  sometimes  the  leff^ 

Now  shaves  with  level  wing  the  deep"',  then  soars 
Up  to  the  fiery  concave  towering  high. 

2.  At  last,  appear 
Hell  bounds,  high  reaching  to  the  horrid  roof, 

And  thrice  threefold  the  gates' ; three  folds  were  bras©', 
Three  iron,  three  of  adamantine  rock 
Impenetrable,  impaled  with  circling  fire, 

Yet  unconsumed.  Before  the  gates  there  sat. 

On  either  side,  a formidable  shape' ; 

The  one  seemed  woman  to  the  waist,  and  fair, 

But  ended  foul  in  many  a scaly  fold. 

Voluminous  and  vast',  a serpent  armed 
With  mortal  sting' ; about  her  middle  round, 

A cry  of  hell  hounds  never  ceasing  barked, 

With  wide  Cerberian  mouths  full  loud,  and  rung 
A hideous  peal. 

3.  The  other  shape. 

If  shape  it  might  be  called,  that  shape  had  none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb ; 

Or  substayice  might  be  called,  that  shadow  seemed. 

For  each  seemed  either;  black  it  stood  as  night'. 

Fierce  as  ten  furies',  terrible  as  hell', 

And  shook  a dreadful  dart' ; what  seemed  his  head 
The  likeness  of  a kingly  crown'  had  on. 

4.  Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast 
With  horrid  strides;  hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 

The  undaunted  fiend  what  this  might  be,  admired — 
Admired^ ^ not  feared;  God  and  his  Son  except, 

Created  thing  naught  valued  he,  nor  shunned' ; 

And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began: 

5.  {h)  “ Whence  and  what  art'  thou,  execrable  shape, 

That  dar’st,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates  ? Through  them  I mean  to  pass\ 
That  be  assured'',  wdthout  leave  asked  of  thee' : 
Ketire',  or  taste'  thy  folly;  and  learn  by  proof, 
Hell-born^,  not  to  contend  with  spirits  of  heaven!  ” 

6.  To  whom  the  goblin,  full  of  wrath,  replied : 

(h)  “ Art  thou  that  traitor  angeF,  art  thou  he, 

Who  first  broke  peace  in  heaven^,  and  faith,  till  then 
Unbroken^,  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 
Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  heaven’s  sons, 
Conjured  against  the  Highest^,  for  which  both  thou 
And  they,  outcast  from  God^,  are  here  condemned 
To  waste  eternal  days  in  woe  and  pain^? 

And  reckonest  thou  thyself  with  spirits  of  heaven', 
Hell-doomed' ! and  breathest  defiance  here  and  scorn, 
Where  /'  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee  more, 
king  and  lord'  ? Back'  to  thy  punishment'. 
False  fugitive!  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings; 

Lest  with  a whip  of  scorpions,  I pursue 
Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart. 

Strange  horrors  seize  thee,  and  pangs  unfelt'  before.” 

7.  So  spake  the  grisly  terror',  and  in  shape 

So  speaking  and  so  threatening,  grew  tenfold 
More  dreadful  and  deform.  On  the  other  side, 
Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified',  and  like  a comet  burned. 

That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war.  Each  at  the  head 
Leveled  his  deadly  aim';  their  fatal  hands 
No  second'^  stroke  intend ; and  such  a frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other',  as  when  two  black  clouds 
With  heaven’s  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
Over  the  Caspian' ; then  stand  front  to  front, 

Hovering  a space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid  air. 

8.  So  frowned  the  mighty  combatants,  that  hell 

Grew  darker  at  the  frown' : so  matched',  they  stood' ; 
For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a foe.  And  now  great  deeds 
Had  been  achieved,  whereof  all  hell  had  rung. 

Had  not  the  snaky  sorceress,  that  sat 
Fast  by  hell  gate,  and  kept  the  fatal  key, 

Risen,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rushed  between. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES 


155 


LII.— GOD  IS  EVERY-WIIERE. 

1.  Oh  ! show  me  where  is  He, 

The  high  and  holy  One\ 

To  whom  thou  bend’st  the  knee, 

And  prayest^,  “ Thy  will  be  done  I 
1 hear  thy  song  of  praise, 

And  lo!  no  form^  is  near: 

Thine  eyes  I see  thee  raise, 

But  where  doth  God  appear? 

Oh ! teach  me  who  zV  God,  and  where  his  glories  shine, 

That  I may  kneel  and  pray,  and  call  thy  Father  mine. 

2.  “Gaze  on  that  arch  above^: 

The  glittering  vault  admire. 

Who  taught  those  orbs  to  move? 

Who  lit  their  ceaseless  fire  ? 

Who  guides  the  moon  to  run 

In  silence  through  the  skies? 

Who  bids  that  dawning  sun 
In  strength  and  beauty  rise  ? 

There  view  immensity^  ! behold' ! my  God  is  there : 

The  sun',  the  moon',  the  stars',  his  majesty  declare'. 

3.  “See  where  the  mountains'^  rise; 

Where  thundering  torrents'^  foam ; 

Where,  veiled  in  towering  skies, 

The  eagl^  makes  his  home: 

Where  savage  nature  dwells, 

My  God  is  present  too' ; 

Through  all  her  wildest  dells 
His  footsteps  I pursue: 

/ie'  reared  those  giant  cliffs,  supplies  that  dashing  stream. 
Provides  the  daily  food  which  stills  the  wild  bird’s  scream. 

4.  “Look  on  that  world  of  waves., 

Where  finny  nations  glide ; 

Within  whose  deep,  dark  caves 
The  ocean  monsters  hide : 

His  power  is  sovereign  there, 

To  raise',  to  quell'  the  storm; 

The  depths  his  bounty  share. 

Where  sport  the  scaly  swarm : 

Tempests  and  calms  obey  the  same  almighty  voice, 

Which  rules  the  earth  and  skies',  and  bids  far  worlds  rejoica 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


5.  “No  human  thoughts  can  soar 
Beyond  his  boundless  might; 

He  swells  the  thunder’s  roar, 

He  spreads  the  wings  of  night. 

Oh ! praise  his  works  divine' ! 

Bow  down  thy  soul  in  prayer'; 

Nor  ask  for  other  sign, 

That  God  is  every- where  ; 

The  viewless  spirit^,  He' — immortaF,  holy^,  blest' ; 
Oh!  worship  him  in  faith^,  and  find  eternal  rest'!” 


LIII.— IRONICAL  EULOGY  ON  DEBT. 

1.  Debt  is  of  the  very  highest  antiquity.  The  first  debt 
in  the  history  of  man  is  the  debt  of  nature,  and  the  first 
instinct  is  to  put  off  the  payment  of  it  to  the  last  moment. 
Many  persons,  it  will  be  observed,  following  the  natural  pro- 
cedure, would  die  before  they  would  pay  their  debts. 

2.  Society  is  composed  of  two  classes',  debtors'  and  cred- 
itors'. The  creditor  class  has  been  erroneously  supposed  the 
more  enviable.  Never  was  there  a greater  misconception'; 
and  the  hold  it  yet  maintains  upon  opinion,  is  a remarkable 
example  of  the  obstinacy  of  error,  notwithstanding  the  plain- 
est lessons  of  experience.  The  debtor  has  the  sympathies 
of  mankind.  He  is  seldom  spoken  of  but  with  expressions 
of  tenderness  and  compassion — “the  poor  debtor'!” — and 
“ the  unfortunate  debtor' ! ” On  the  other  hand,  “ harsh  ” 
and  “hard-hearted”  are  the  epithets  allotted  to  the  creditor. 
Who  ever  heard  the  “poor  creditor,”  the  “unfortunate  cred- 
itor'” spoken  of?  No',  the  creditor  never  becomes  the  object 
of  pity,  unless  he  passes  into  the  debtor  class.  A creditor 
may  be  ruined  by  the  poor  debtor,  but  it  is  not  until  he 
becomes  unable  to  pay  his  own  debts,  that  he  begins  to  be 
compassionated. 

3.  A debtor  is  a man  of  mark.  Many  eyes  are  fixed  upion 
him';  many  have  interest  in  his  well-being':  his  movements 
are  of  concern : he  can  not  disappear  unheeded' ; his  name  is 
in  many  mouths';  his  name  is  upon  many  books';  he  is  a 
man  of  note' — of  promissory'  note;  he  fills  the  speculation 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


157 


of  many  minds';  men  conjecture'  about  him,  wonder  about 
him — wonder  and  conjecture  whether  he  will  pay.  He  is  a 
man  of  consequence',  for  many  are  running'  after  him.  His 
door  is  thronged  with  duns.  He  is  inquired  after  every  hour 
of  the  day.  Judges'  hear  of  him  and  know  him.  Every  meal 
he  swallows',  every  coat  he  puts  upon  his  back',  every  dollar 
he  borrows',  appears  before  the  country  in  some  formal  doc- 
ument'. Compare  Ms'  notoriety  with  the  obscure  lot  of  the 
creditor' — of  the  man  who  has  nothing  but  claims  on  the 
world ; a landlord,  or  fund-holder,  or  some  sucli'  disagreeable, 
hard  character. 

4.  The  man  who  pays  his  way  is  unknown  in  his  neighbor- 
hood. You  ask  the  milk-man  at  his  door,  and  he  can  not  tell 
his  name.  You  ask  the  butcher  where  Mr.  Payall  lives',  and 
he  tells  you  he  knows  no  such  name',  for  it  is  not  in  his 
books.  You  shall  ask  the  baker,  and  he  will  tell  you  there 
is  no  such  person  in  the  neighborhood.  People  that  have 
his  money'  fast  in  their  pockets,  have  no  thought  of  his  per- 
son or  appellation.  His  house  only  is  known.  No.  31  is  good 
pay.  No.  31  is  ready  money.  Not  a scrap  of  paper  is  ever 
made  out  for  No.  31.  It  is  an  anonymous''  house;  its  owner 
pays  his  way  to  obscurity.  No  one  knows  any  thing  about 
him,  or  heeds  his  movements.  If  a carriage  be  seen  at  his 
door,  the  neigborhood  is  not  full  of  concern  lest  he  be  go- 
ing to  run  away.  If  a package  be  moved  from  his  house, 
a score  of  boys  are  not  employed  to  watch  whether  it  be 
carried  to  the  pawnbroker.  Mr.  Payall  fills  no  place  in  the 
public  mind';  no  one  has  any  hopes  or  fears  about  him. 

5.  The  creditor  always  figures  in  the  fancy  as  a sour,  single 
man,  with  grizzled  hair,  a scowling  countenance,  and  a 
peremptory  air',  who  lives  in  a dark  apartment,  with  musty 
deeds  about  him,  and  an  iron  safe,  as  impenetrable  as 
his  heart',  grabbing  together  what  he  does  not  enjoy,  and 
what  there  is  no  one  about'  him  to  enjoy.  The  debtor, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  always  pictured  with  a wife  and  six 
fair-haired  daughters,  bound  together  in  affection  and  mis- 
ery', full  of  sensibility,  and  suffering  without  a fault.  The 
creditor,  it  is  never  doubted,  thrives  without  a merit.  He 
has  no  wife  and  chilaren  to  pity.  No  one  ever  thinks  it  de- 
sirable that  he''  should  have  the  means  of  living'.  He  is  a 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


brute  for  insisting  that  he  must  receive,  in  order  to  pay.  It 
is  not  in  the  imagination  of  man  to  conceive"  that  his  creditor 
has  demands  upon  him  which  must  be  satisfied^  and  that  he 
must  do  to  others,  as  others  must  do  to  him.  A creditor  is 
a personification  of  exaction.  He  is  supposed  to  be  always 
taking  in',  and  never  giving  out. 

6.  People  idly  fancy,  that  the  possession  of  riches  is  desir- 
able. What  blindness' ! Spend  and  regale'.  Save  a shilling 
and  you  lay  it  by  for  a thief.  The  prudent  men  are  the  men 
that  live  beyond  their  means.  Happen  what  may,  they  are 
safe.  They  have  taken  time  by  the  forelock.  They  have  an- 
ticipated fortune.  “The  wealthy  fool,  with  gold  in  store,” 
has  only  denied  himself  so  much  enjoyment,  which  another 
will  seize  at  his  expense.  Look  at  these  people  in  a panic. 
See  who  are  the  fools  then.  You  know  them  by  their  long 
faces.  You  may  say,  as  one  of  them  goes  by  in  an  agony  of 
apprehension,  “ There  is  a stupid  fellow  who  fancied  himself 
rich,  because  he  had  fifty  thousand  dollars  in  bank.”  The 
history  of  the  last  ten  years  has  taught  the  moral,  “ spend 
and  regale.”  Whatever  is  laid  up  beyond  the  present  hour^ 
is  put  in  jeopardy.  There  is  no  certainty  but  in  instant 
enjoyment'.  Look  at  school-boys  sharing  a plum  cake.  The 
knowing  ones  eat,  as  for  a race ; but  a stupidi"  fellow  saves  his 
portion;  just  nibbles  a bit,  and  “keeps  the  rest  for  another 
time.”  Most  provident  blockhead!  The  others,  when  they 
have  gobbled  up  their'  shares,  set  upon  /am',  plunder  him, 
and  thresh  him  for  crying  out. 

7.  Before  the  terms  “depreciation,”  “suspension,”  and 
“going  into  liquidation,”  were  heard,  there  might  have  been 
some  reason  in  the  practice  of  “laying  up';”  but  now' \t 
denotes  the  darkest  blindness.  The  prudent  men  of  the 
present  time,  are  the  men  in  debt.  The  tendency  being  to 
sacrifice  creditors  to  debtors,  and  the  debtor  party  acquiring 
daily  new  strength  every  one  is  in  haste  to  get  into  the  fa- 
vored class.  In  any  case,  the  debtor'  is  safe.  He  has  put 
his  enjoyments  behind"  him;  they  are  safe';  no  turns  of  fort- 
une can  disturb'  them.  The  substance  he  has  eaten  up, 
is  irrecoverable.  The  future  can  not  trouble  his  past.  He 
has  nothing  to  apprehend.  He  has  anticipated  more  than 
fortune  would  ever  have  granted'  him.  He  has  tricked'"  fort- 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


159 


une ; and  liis  creditors' — bah' ! who  feels  for  creditors'  ? 
What  are^  creditors?  Landlords;  a pitiless  and  unpitiable 
tribe';  all  griping  extortioners'!  What  would  become  of 
the  world  of  debtors',  if  it  did  not  steal  a march  upon  this 
rapacious  class'? 


LIV.— FAITHLESS  NET  LY  CRAY. 
From  Hood. 

1.  Ben  Battle  was  a soldier  bold, 

And  used  to  war’s  alarms ; 

But  a cannon-ball  took  oflf*  his  legs^ 

So  he  laid  down  his  ajyms  I 

2.  Now,  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 

Said  he,  “Let  others^  shoot. 

For  here  T leave  my  second  leg. 

And  the  Forty-second  Foot!” 

3.  The  army  surgeons  made  him  limbs', 

Said  he,  “They’re  only  pegs': 

But  there’s  as  wooden  members  quite, 
As  represent  my  legs!  ” 

4.  Now  Ben,  he  loved  a pretty  maid'. 

Her  name^  was  Nelly  Gray'; 

So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devoirs^ 
When  he ’d  devoured  his  pay. 

5.  But  Avhen  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a scoff; 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs^, 
Began  to  take  them  off! 

6.  “O  Nelly  Gray"!  O Nelly  Gray"! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm"  ? 

The  love  that  loves  a scarlet  coat, 
Should  be  more  uniform  I ” 

7.  Said  she",  “ I loved  a <inldier^  once 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave' ; 

But  I will  never  have  a man 
With  both  legs  in  the  grave'! 


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NEV/  SIXTH  READER. 


8 “Before  you  had  these  timber  toes, 
Your  love  I did  allow', 

But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 
Another now!  ” 

9.  “O  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray! 

I know  why  you  refuse  : 

Though  I ’ve  no  feet' — some  other'  man 
Is  standing  in  my  shoes ! 

10.  “I  wish  I ne’er  had  seen  your  face ; 

But,  now,  a long  farewell  I 
For  you  will  be  my  death' ; — alas'  1 
You  will  not  be  my  Nell  ! ” 

11.  Now  Avhen  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got, 

And  life  was  such  a burden  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a knot! 

12.  So,  round  his  melancholy  neck, 

A rope  he  did  entwine', 

And  for  the  second  time  in  life, 
Enlisted  in  the  Line ! 

13.  One  end  he  tied  around  a beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs', 

And,  as  his  kgs  were  qf'y  of  course, 

He  soon  was  off  his  legs. 

14.  And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town': 

For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up^ 
It  could  not  cut  him  down  1 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


161 


LV.— DESCRIPTION  OF  A SIEGE. 

From  Walter  Scott. 

Tvanhoe.  a wounded  knight,  and  Rebecca,  a Jewess,  had  been  im- 
p»-isoned  in  the  castle  of  Reginald  Front  de  Boeuf.  The  friends  of  the 
prisoners  undertake  their  rescue.  At  the  request  of  Ivanhoe,  who  is 
unable  to  leave  his  couch,  Rebecca  takes  her  stand  near  a window 
overlooking  the  approach  to  the  castle,  and  details  to  the  knight  the 
incidents  of  the  contest,  as  they  take  place.  Front  de  Boeuf  and  his 
garrison  were  Normans;  the  besiegers,  Saxons. 

Barbacan,  an  outer  defense,  or  fortification,  used  as  a watch-tower. 

1.  The  skirts  of  the  wood  seem  lined  with  archers, 
although  only  a few  are  advanced  from  its  dark  shadow. 
“Under  what  banner?”  asked  Tvanhoe.  “Under  no  ensign 
which  I can  observe,”  answered  Rebecca.  “ A singular  nov^ 
elty,”  muttered  the  knight,  “to  advance  to  storm  such  a 
castle  without  pennon  or  banner  displayed.  Seest  thou  who 
they  be  that  act  as  leaders?”  “A  knight  clad  in  sable 
armor  is  the  most  conspicuous,”  said  the  Jewess:  “he  alone 
is  armed  from  head  to  heel,  and  seems  to  assume  the  di- 
rection of  all  around  him.” 

2.  “Seem  there  no  other  leaders?”  exclaimed  the  anxious 
inquirer.  “None  of  mark  and  distinction  that  I can  behold 
from  this  station,”  said  Rebecca,  “but  doubtless  the  other 
side  of  the  castle  is  also  assailed.  They  seem,  even  now, 
preparing  to  advance.  God  of  Zion  protect  us ! What  a 
dreadful  sight ! Those,  who  advance  first,  bear  huge  shields 
and  defenses  made  of  plank : the  others  follow,  bending  their 
bows  as  they  come  on.  They  raise  their  bows  ! God  of  Moses, 
forgive  the  creatures  thou  hast  made ! ” 

3.  Her  description  was  here  suddenly  interrupted  by  the 
signal  for  assault,  which  was  given  by  the  blast  of  a shrill 
bugle,  and  at  once  answered  by  a flourish  of  the  Norman 
trumpets  from  the  battlements,  which,  mingled  with  the 
deep  and  hollow  clang  of  the  kettle-drums,  retorted  in  notes 
of  defiance  the  challenge  of  the  enemy.  The  shouts  of 
both  parties  augmented  the  fearful  din,  the  assailants  cry- 
ing, “Saint  George,  for  merry  England!”  and  the  Normans 
answering  them  with  loud  cries  of  “Onward,  De  Bracy! 
Front  de  Boeuf,  to  the  rescue!” 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


4.  And  I must  lie  here,  like  a bed-ridden  monk,’'  ex- 
cdaimed  Ivanhoe.  “while  the  game,  that  gives  me  freedom  or 
death,  is  played  out  by  the  hand  of  others ! Look  from  the 
window  once  again,  kind  maiden,  and  tell  me  if  they  yet 
advance  to  the  storm.’'  With  patient  courage,  strengthened 
by  the  interval  which  she  had  employed  in  mental  devotion, 
Rebecca  again  took  post  at  the  lattice,  sheltering  herself, 
however,  so  as  not  to  be  exposed  to  the  arrows  of  the  arch- 
ers. “What  dost  thou  see,  Rebecca?”  again  demanded  the 
wounded  knight.  “Nothing  but  the  cloud  of  arrows  flying 
so  thick  as  to  dazzle  mine  eyes,  and  to  hide  the  bowmen  who 
shoot  them.”  “ That  can  not  endure,”  said  Ivanhoe.  “If 
they  press  not  right  on,  to  carry  the  castle  by  force  of  arms, 
the  archery  may  avail  but  little  against  stone  walls  and  bul- 
warks. Look  for  the  knight  in  dark  armor,  fair  Rebecca, 
and  see  how  he  bears  himself;  for  as  the  leader  is,  so  will 
his  followers  be.” 

5.  “I  see  him  not,”  said  Rebecca.  “Foul  craven!”  ex- 
claimed Ivanhoe;  “does  he  blench  from  the  helm,  when 
the  wind  blows  highest?”  “He  blenches  not!  he  blenches 
not!”  said  Rebecca;  “I  see  him  now:  he  leads  a body  of 
men  close  under  the  outer  barrier  of  the  barbacan.  They 
pull  down  the  piles  and  palisades ; they  hew  down  the  bar- 
riers, with  axes.  His  high,  black  plume  floats  abroad  over 
the  throng,  like  a raven  over  the  field  of  the  slain.  They 
have  made  a breach  in  the  barriers,  they  rush  in,  they  are 
thrust  back  ! Front  de  Bceuf  heads  the  defenders.  I see 
his  gigantic  form  above  the  press.  They  throng  again  to 
the  breach,  and  the  pass  is  disputed,  hand  to  hand,  and  man 
to  man.  God  of  Jacob  ! it  is  the  meeting  of  two  fierce  tides, 
the  conflict  of  two  oceans  moved  by  adverse  winds:  ” and  she 
turned  her  head  from  the  window,  as  if  unable  longer  to  en> 
dure  a sight  so  terrible. 

6.  Speedily  recovering  her  self-control,  Rebecca  again 
looked  forth,  and  almost  immediately  exclaimed,  “ Holy 
prophets  of  the  law  ! Front  de  Boeuf  and  the  Black  Knight 
fight  hand  to  hand  on  the  breach,  amid  the  roar  of  their 
followers,  who  watch  the  progress  of  the  strife.  Heaven 
strike  with  the  cause  of  the  oppressed  and  of  the  captive  ! ” 
She  then  uttered  a loud  shriek,  and  exclaimed,  “ He  is  down  1 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


163 


he  is  down!”  “Who  is  down?”  cried  Ivanhoe ; “for  our 
dear  Lady’s  sake,  tell  me  which  has  fallen  ! ” “ The  Black 

Knight,”  answered  Bebecca,  faintly;  then  instantly  again 
shouted  with  joyful  eagerness — “ But  no  ! but  no  ! the  name 
of  the  Lord  of  Hosts  be  blessed  ! he  is  on  foot  again,  and 
fights  as  if  there  were  twenty  men’s  strength  in  his  single 
arm — his  sword  is  broken — he  snatches  an  ax  from  a yeo- 
man— he  presses  Front  de  Ba3uf,  blow  on  blow — the  giant 
stoops  and  totters  like  an  oak  under  the  steel  of  the  wood- 
man— he  falls — he  falls!”  “Front  de  Boeuf  ? ” exclaimed 
Ivanhoe.  “Front  de  Boeuf,”  answered  the  Jewess;  “his 
men  rush  to  the  rescue,  headed  by  the  haughty  Templar, — 
their  united  force  compels  the  champion  to  pause — they  drag 
Front  de  Boeuf  within  the  walls.” 

7.  “ The  assailants  have  won  the  barriers,  have  they  not?  ” 
said  Ivanhoe.  “ They  have — they  have,— and  they  press  the 
besieged  hard,  upon  the  outer  wall ; some  plant  ladders,  some 
swarm  like  bees,  and  endeavor  to  ascend  upon  the  shoulders 
of  each  other ; down  go  stones,  beams,  and  trunks  of  trees 
upon  their  heads,  and  as  fast  as  they  bear  the  wounded  to 
the  rear,  fresh  men  supply  their  places  in  the  assault.  Grreat 
Grod ! hast  thou  given  men  thine  own  image,  that  it  should 
be  thus  cruelly  defaced  by  the  hands  of  their  brethren  ! ” — 
“Think  not  of  that,”  replied  Ivanhoe;  “this  is  no  time  for 
such  thoughts.  Who  yield?  Who  push  their  way?” 

8.  “ The  ladders  are  thrown  down,”  replied  Bebecca, 
shuddering ; “ the  soldiers  lie  groveling  under  them  like 
crushed  reptiles;  the  besieged  have  the  better.”  “Saint 
George  strike  for  us!”  said  the  knight;  “do  the  false  yeo- 
men give  way?”  “No,”  exclaimed  Bebecca,  “they  bear 
themselves  right  yeomanly ; the  Black  Knight  approaches 
the  postern  v/ith  his  huge  ax  ; the  thundering  blows  which 
lie  deals,  you  may  hear  them  above  all  the  din  and  shouts 
of  the  battle ; stones  and  beams  are  hailed  down  on  the 
brave  champion ; he  regards  them  no  more  than  if  they 
were  thistle-down  and  feathers.” 

9.  “St.  John  of  Acre!”  said  Ivanhoe,  raising  himself 
joyfully  on  his  couch,  “ methought  there  was  but  one  man 
in  England  that  might  do  such  a deed.”  “ The  postern  gate 
shakes,”  continued  Bebecca;  “it  crashes — it  is  splintered  by 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


his  powerful  blows — they  rush  in — the  outwork  is  won  ! O 
Grod  ! they  hurry  the  defenders  from  the  battlements — they 
throw  them  into  the  moat ! 0 men,  if  ye  be  indeed  men, 

spare  them  that  can  resist  no  longer  ! ” “ The  bridge — the 

bridge  which  communicates  with  the  castle — have  they  won 
that  pass?”  exclaimed  Ivanhoe.  “No,”  replied  Rebecca; 
“ the  Templar  has  destroyed  the  plank  on  which  they  crossed 
— few  of  the  defenders  escaped  with  him  into  the  castle — the 
shrieks  and  cries  which  you  hear,  tell  the  fate  of  the  others. 
Alas ! I see  that  it  is  still  more  difficult  to  look  upon  victory 
than  upon  battle.” 

10.  “What  do  they  now,  maiden?”  said  Ivanhoe;  “look 
forth  yet  again,  this  is  no  time  to  faint  at  bloodshed.”  “ It  is 
over,  for  a time,”  said  Rebecca;  “ our  friends  strengthen  them- 
selves within  the  outwork  which  they  have  mastered.”  “Our 
friends,”  said  Ivanhoe,  “will  surely  not  abandon  an  enterprise 
so  gloriously  begun,  and  so  happily  attained ; 0 no  ! I will  put 
my  faith  in  the  good  knight,  whose  ax  has  rent  heart  of  oak, 
and  bars  of  iron.  Singular,”  he  again  muttered  to  himself, 
“if  there  cun  be  two  who  are  capable  of  such  achievements. 
It  is,  it  mz/.s/  be  Richard  C(EUR  de  Lion.’’^ 

11.  “ Seest  thou  nothing  else,  Rebecca,  by  which  the  Black 
Knight  may  be  distinguished? ” “ Nothing,”  said  the  Jewess, 
“ all  about  him  is  as  black  as  the  wing  of  the  night-raven. 
Nothing  can  I spy  that  can  mark  him  further  ; but  having 
once  seen  him  put  forth  his  strength  in  battle,  methinks  I 
could  know  him  again  among  a thousand  warriors.  He 
rushes  to  the  fray,  as  if  he  were  summoned  to  a banquet. 
There  is  more  than  mere  strength  ; it  seems  as  if  the  whole 
soul  and  spirit  of  the  champion,  were  given  to  every  blow 
which  he  deals  upon  his  enemies.  Giod  forgive  him  the  sin 
of  bloodshed ! it  is  fearful,  yet  magnificent  to  behold,  how 
the  arm  and  heart  of  one  man  can  triumph  over  hundreds.” 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


165 


LVL— DESCRIPTION  OF  A STORM  AT  SEA. 

From  Carrington. 

1.  The  evening  winds  shrieked  wildly:  the  dark  cloiid 
Rested  upon  the  horizon’s  hem,  and  grew 
Mightier  and  mightier,  flinging  its  black  arch 
Around  the  troubled  offing,  till  it  grasped 
Within  its  terrible  embrace,  the  all 

That  eye  could  see  of  ocean.  There  arose, 

Forth  from  the  infinite  of  waters,  sounds. 

Confused,  appalling;  from  the  dread  lee  shore 
There  came  a heavier  swell,  a lengthened  roar, 

Each  moment  deeper,  rolling  on  the  ear 
With  most  portentous  voice.  Rock  howled  to  rock, 
Headland  to  headland,  as  the  Atlantic  flung 
Its  billows  shoreward;  and  the  feathery  foam 
Of  twice  ten  thousand  broken  surges,  sailed 
High  o’er  'the  dim-seen  land.  The  startled  gull, 

With  scream  prophetic,  sought  his  savage  cliff. 

And  e’en  the  bird  that  loves  to  sail  between 
The  ridges  of  the  sea,  Avith  hurried  Aving, 

Flew  from  the  blast’s  fierce  onset. 

2.  One — far  off, — 

One  hapless  ship  was  seen  upon  the  deep, 

Breasting  the  Avestern  Avaters.  Nothing  lived 
Around  her;  all  AAms  desert;  for  the  storm 
Had  made  old  ocean’s  realm  a solitude. 

Where  man  might  fear  to  roam.  And  there  she  sat, 
A lonely  thing  amid  the  gathering  strife. 

With  pinions  folded — not  for  rest, — prepared 
To  struggle  Avith  the  tempest. 

3.  And  it  came, 

As  night  abruptly  closed;  nor  moon  nor  star 
Looked  from  the  sky,  but  darkness  deep  as  that 
Which  reigned  OA^er  primcAml  chaos,  wrapped 
That  fated  bark,  save  AAffien  the  lightning  hissed 
Along  the  bursting  billow.  Ocean  howled 

To  the  high  thunder,  and  the  thunder  spoke 
To  the  rebellious  ocean,  with  a voice 
So  terrible,  that  all  the  rush  and  roar 
Of  waves  were  but  as  the  meek  lapse  of  rills, 

To  that  deep,  everlasting  peal,  Avhich  comes 
From  thee,  Niagara,  Avild  flinging  o’er 
Thy  steep  the  waters  of  a world. 

14 


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4.  Anon, 

The  lightnings  glared  more  fiercely,  burning  round 
The  glowing  offing  with  unwonted  stay, 

As  if  they  lingered  o’er  the  dark  abyss. 

And  raised  its  veil  of  horror,  but  to  show 

Its  wild  and  tortured  face.  And  then  the  winds 

Held  oft  a momentary  pause. 

As  spent  with  their  own  fury ; but  they  came 
Again  with  added  power;  with  shriek  and  cry, 
Almost  unearthly,  as  if  on  their  wings, 

Passed  by  the  spirit  of  the  storm 

5.  T^^cy  heard, 
Who  rode  the  midnight  mountain  wave ; the  voice 
Of  death  was  in  that  cry  unearthly.  Oft, 

In  the  red  battle  had  they  seen  him  stride 
The  glowing  deck,  scattering  his  burning  hail. 

And  breathing  liquid  flame,  until  the  Avinds, 

The  very  winds  grew  faint,  and  on  the  waves 
Rested  the  columned  smokes;  but  on  that  night 
He  came  with  tenfold  terrors;  with  a power 
That  shook  at  once  heaven,  earth;  his  ministers 
Of  vengeance  round  him,  the  great  wind,  the  sea. 
The  thunder,  and  the  fatal  flash  ! Alas ! 

Day  dawned  not  on  the  mariner;  ere  morn. 

The  lightning  lit  the  seaman  to  his  grave, 

And  the  fierce  sea-dog  feasted  on  the  dead! 


].VH.— -LIFE,  A MIGHTY  RIVER. 

From  Heber. 

Reginald  Hebkr,  late  Bishop  of  Calcutta,  was  born  in  178.3,  Kiid  died 
suddenly  at  Trichinopoli,  in  1826.  Heber  was  truly  a Christian  poet, 
and  a spirit  of  affectionate  piety  pervades  all  his  writings. 

1.  Life  bears  us  on,  like  the  current  of  a mighty  river. 
Our  boat,  at  first,  glides  down  the  narrow  channel,  through 
the  playful  murmurings  of  the  little  brook,  and  the  wind- 
ings of  its  happy  border.  The  trees  shed  their  blossoms 
over  our  young  heads ; the  flowers  on  the  brink  seem  to 
ofler  themselves  to  our  hands ; we  are  happy  in  hope,  and 
we  grasp  eagerly  at  the  beauties  around  us ; but  the  stream 
hurries  us  on.  and  still  our  hands  are  empty. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


167 


2.  Our  course  in  youth  and  manhood  is  along  a wider  and 
deeper  flood,  and  amid  objects  more  striking  and  magnificent. 
We  are  animated  by  the  moving  picture  of  enjoyment  and 
industry  which  passes  before  us ; we  are  excited  by  some 
short-lived  success,  or  depressed  and  made  miserable  by 
some  equally  short-lived  disappointment.  But  pur  energy 
and  our  dependence  are  both  in  vain.  The  stream  bears  us 
on,  and  our  joys  and  our  griefs  are  alike  left  behind  us ; we 
may  be  shipwrecked,  but  we  can  not  anchor ; our  voyage 
may  be  hastened,  but  it  can  not  be  delayed ; whether  rough 
or  smooth,  the  river  hastens  toward  its  home,  till  the  roaring 
of  the  ocean  is  in  our  ears,  and  the  tossing  of  the  waves  is 
beneath  our  keel,  and  the  land  lessens  from  our  eyes,  and 
the  floods  are  lifted  up  around  us,  and  we  take  our  last  leave 
of  the  earth,  and  its  inhabitants ; and  of  our  further  voyage 
there  is  no  witness  but  the  Infinite  and  Eternal. 

3.  And  do  we  still  take  so  much  anxious  thought  for 
future  days,  when  the  days  which  have  gone  by  have  so 
strangely  and  so  uniformly  deceived  us?  Can  we  still  so  set 
our  hearts  on  the  creatures  of  God,  when  we  find,  by  sad 
experience,  that  the  Creator  only  is  permanent?  Or  shall 
we  not  rather  lay  aside  eveiy  weight,  and  every  sin  which 
doth  most  easily  beset  us,  and  think  ourselves  henceforth  as 
wayfaring  persons  only,  who  have  no  abiding  inheritance  but 
in  the  hope  of  a better  world,  and  to  whom  even  that  world 
would  be  worse  than  hopeless,  if  it  were  aot  for  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  and  the  interest  we  have  obtained  in  his  mercies? 


LVIIL— THE  FAMILY  MEETING. 

From  Sprague. 

Charles  Sprague,  a native  of  Boston,  was  bom  in  1791,  and  died  in  1875. 
In  his  leisure  moments,  he  wrote  some  admirable  poems,  marked  by  much 
beauty  and  finish  of  style.  Among  these  are  Curiosity,  Shakspeare  Ode,  Cen- 
tennial Ode,  The  Winged  Worshipers,  The  Family  Meeting,  etc. 

1.  We  are  all  here'" ! 

Father',  mother', 

Sister',  brother^, 

All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 

Each  chair  is  filled^;  we’re  all  at  home>: 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


To-night,  let  no  cold  stranger  come': 

It  is  not  often  thus  around 

Our  old  familiar  hearth  we’re  found. 

Bless  then  the  meeting  and  the  spot'; 

For  once,  be  every  care  forgot'; 

Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 

And  kind  Affection  rule  the  hour': 

We’re  alV — alV  here. 

2.  We’re  not'  all  here! 

Some  are  away', — the  deadt  ones  dear. 

Who  thronged  with  us  this  ancient  hearth, 

And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 

Fate,  with  a stern,  relentless  hand, 

Looked  in  and  thinned  our  little  band': 

Some^,  like  a night-flash,  passed  away^. 

And  some^  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day' ; 

The  quiet  grave-yard' — some^  lie  there'. 

And  cruel  Ocean  has  his^  share  ; 

I/V  e ’re  not  all  here. 

3.  ‘ We  ard'  all  here! 

Even  they^^  the  dead} — though  dead^,  so  dea 
Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true, 

Brings  back  theid  faded  forms  to  view. 

How  life-like  through  the  mist  of  years. 

Each  well-remembered  face  appears'! 

We  see  them  as  in  times  long  past; 

From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast  ; 

We  hear  their  words'^ ^ their  smiles^  behold. 

They  ’re  round  us  as  they  were  of  old' : 

We  are'  all  here. 

4.  We  are  all  here'! 

Father^,  mother^, 

Sister^,  brother', 

You  that  I love  with  love  so  dear'. 

This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 

Soon  must  we  join  the  gathered  dead; 

And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round, 

Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 

O,  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know. 

Which  yields  a life  of  peace  below! 

So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this. 

May  each  repeat  in  words  of  bliss, 

We’re  alV — alV — here'll 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


169 


LIX— A VIEW  OF  THE  COLISEUM. 

From  Dewey. 

Coliseum,  (pro.  Col-i-se^-um,)  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  building  at 
Rome. 

1.  On  the  eighth  of  November,  from  the  high  land,  about 
fourteen  miles  distant,  I first  saw  Rome';  and  although  there 
is  something  very  unfavorable  to  impression  in  the  expecta- 
tion that  you  are  to  be  greatly  impressed^  or  that  you  oug}it 
to  be,  or  that  such  is  the  fashioii" ; yet  Rome  is  too  mighty  a 
name  to  be  withstood  by  such  or  any  other^  influences.  Let 
you  come  upon  that  hill  in  what  mood  you  may^^  the  scene 
will  lay  hold  upon  you  as  with  the  hand  of  a giant.  I 
scarcely  know  how  to  describe'  the  impression,  but  it  seemed 
to  me,  as  if  something  strong  and  stately,  like  fhe  slow  and 
majestic  march  of  a mighty  whirlwind,  swept  around  those 
eternal  towers';  the  storms  of  time,  that  had  prostrated  the 
proudest  monuments  of  the  world',  seemed  to  have  left  their 
vibrations  in  the  still  and  solemn  air' ; ages  of  history  passed 
before  me;  the  mighty  procession  of  nations',  kings',  con- 
suls', emperors',  empires',  and  generations,  had  passed  over 
that  sublime  theater.  The  fire,  the  storm,  the  earthquake, 
had  gone  by' ; but  there  was  yet  left  the  still  small  voice  like 
that,  at  which  the  prophet  ^‘wrapped  his  face  in  his  mantle.” 

2.  I went  to  see  the  Coliseum  by  moonlight.  It  is  the 
monarch,  the  majesty  of  all  ruins';  there  is  nothing  like''  it. 
All  the  associations  of  the  place,  too,  give  it  the  most  impress- 
ive character.  When  you  enter  within  this  stupendoui  circle 
of  ruinous  walls  and  arches,  and  grand  terraces  of  ma  ^onry, 
rising  one  above  another,  you  stand  upon  the  arena  of  the 
old  gladiatorial  combats  and  Christian  martyrdom';  and  as 
you  lift  your  eyes  to  the  vast  amphitheater,  you  meet,  in 
imagination,  the  eyes  of  a hundred  thousand  Romans,  assem- 
bled to  witness  these  bloody  spectacles.  What  a multitude 
and  mighty  array  of  human  beings';  and  how  little  do  we 
know  in  modern  times  of  great  assemblies'!  One,  two,  and 
three,  and  at  its  last  enlargement  by  Constantine,  more  than 
three  hundred  thousand  persons  could  be  seated  in  the  Circus 
Maximus  1 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


3.  But  to  return  to  the  Coliseum';  we  went  up  under  the 
conduct  of  a guide,  upon  the  walls  and  terraces,  or  embank- 
ments which  supported  the  ranges  of  seats.  The  seats  have 
long  since  disappeared';  and  grass  overgrows  the  spots  where 
the  pride,  and  power,  and  wealth,  and  beauty  of  Borne  sat 

down  to  its  barbarous  entertainments.  What  throno’ino*  life 

o o 

was  here  then'!  What  voices,  what  greetings',  what  hurry- 
ing footsteps  upon  the  staircases  of  the  eighty  arches  of  en- 
trance! and  now^  as  we  picked  our  way  carefully  through 
the  decayed  passages,  or  cautiously  ascended  some  moldering 
flight  of  steps,  or  stood  by  the  lonely  walls — ourselves  silent, 
and,  for  a wonder,  the  guide  silent,  too — there  was  no  sound 
here  but  of  the  bat,  and  none  came  from  without,  but  the 
roll  of  a distant  carriage,  or  the  convent  bell  from  the  sum- 
mit of  the  neighboring  Esquiline. 

4.  It  is  scarcely  possible  to  describe  the  effect  of  moonlight 
upon  this  ruin.  Through  a hundred  lonely  arches,  and 
blackened  passage-ways,  it  streamed  in,  pure,  bright,  soft, 
lambent,  and  yet  distinct  and  clear,  as  if  it  came  there  at 
once  to  reveal,  and  cheer,  and  pity  the  mighty  desolation. 
But  if  the  Coliseum  is  a mournful  and  desolate  spectacle  as 
seen  from  within — without^  and  especially  on  the  side  which 
is  in  best  preservation,  it  is  glorious.  We  passed  around'  it; 
and,  as  we  looked  upward,  the  moon  shining  through  its 
arches,  from  the  opposite  side,  it  appeared  as  if  it  were  the 
coronet  of  the  heavens',  so  vast'"  was  it — or  like  a glorious 
crown  upon  the  brow  of  night. 

5.  I feel  that  I do  not  and  can  not  describe  this  mighty 
ruin  I can  only  say  that  I came  away  paralyzed,  and  ^s 
passive  as  a child.  A soldier  stretched  out  his  hand  for  “ w/i 

as  we  passed  the  guard';  and  when  my  companion 
said  I did  wrong  to  give,  I told  him  that  I should  have  given 
my  cloal^^  if  the  man  had  asked'  it.  Would  you  break  any 
spell  that  worldly  feeling  or  selflsh  sorrow  may  have  spread 
over  your  mind,  go  and  see  the  Coliseum  by  moonlight. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


171 


LX.— ON  MODULATION. 

From  Lloyd. 

1.  ’T  IS  not  enough  the  voice^  be  sound  and  clear^, 

’T  is  modulation'  that  must  charm  the  ear. 

When  desperate  heroes  grieve  with  tedious  moan. 
And  whine  their  sorrows  in  a see-saw  tone, 

The  same  soft  sounds  of  unimpassioned  woes, 

Can  only  make  the  yawning  hearers  doze. 

The  voice  all  modes  of  passion  can  express, 

That  marks  the  proper  word  with  proper  stress: 
But  none  emphatic  can  that  speaker  call. 

Who  lays  an  equal  emphasis  on  all. 

2.  Some  o’er  the  tongue  the  labored  measure  roll, 
Slow  and  deliberate  as  the  parting  toll ; 

Point  every  stop,  mark  every  pause  so  strong. 
Their  wordc  like  stage  processions  stalk  along. 

3.  All  affectation  but  creates  disgust; 

And  e’en  in  speaking,  we  may  seem  too  just. 

In  vain  for  therri^  the  pleasing  measure  flows, 
Whose  recitation  runs  it  all  to  prose; 

Repeating  what  the  poet  sets  not  down, 

The  verb  disjointing  from  its  favorite  noun. 

While  pause,  and  break,  and  repetition  join 
To  make  a discord  in  each  tuneful  line'. 

4.  8omey  placid  natures  fill  the  allotted  scene 
With  lifeless  drawls,  insipid  and  serene; 

While  others'  thunder  every  couplet  o’er. 

And  almost  crack  your  ears  with  rant  and  roar; 
More  nature  oft,  and  finer  strokes  are  shown 
In  the  low  whisper,  than  tempestuous  tone ; 

And  Hamlet’s  hollow  voice  and  fixed  amaze. 

More  powerful  terror  to  the  mind  conveys. 

Than  he,  who,  swollen  with  impetuous  rage, 
Bullies  the  bulky  phantom  of  the  stage. 

5.  He  who,  in  earnest,  studies  o’er  his  part, 

Will  find  true  nature  cling  about  his  heart. 

The  modes  of  grief  are  not  included  all 

In  the  white  handkerchief  and  mournful  drawl: 

A single  lookl^  more  marks  the  internal  woe. 

Than  all  the  windings  of  the  lengthened  Ohhl 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Up  to  the  face  the  quick  sensation  flies, 

And  darts  its  meaning  from  the  speaking  eyes: 
Love^,  transport\  madness',  anger',  scorn',  despair^; 
And  all  the  passions^,  all  the  soul  is  there. 


LXI.— COMBAT  AT  A TOURNAMENT. 

* From  Walter  Scott. 

Tournament  ; {pro.  turn'a-ment.)  Formerly,  when  the  chief  business 
of  mankind  was  war,  it  was  customary  for  knights  to  try  their  courage 
and  skill,  in  mock-fights,  armed  with  their  usual  weapons,  the  lance 
and  sword.  When  several  knights  were  engaged  it  was  called  a tourna- 
mont;  when  but  two,  o.  joust. 

The  challenge  to  combat  was  given,  by  touching  the  shield  of  the 
knight  whom  the  challenger  wished  to  encounter.  The  challenge  to  a 
contest  with  headless  or  blunt  lances,  was  given  by  touching  the  shield 
gently  with  the  reversed  spear,  while  a blow  with  the  point  denoted  a 
challenge  to  mortal  conflict. 

List ; the  inclosure  within  which  the  tournaments  were  held. 

Bois  Guilbert;  pro.  Bwah  Guil-bare'. 

Gra-mer'cy ; many  thanks. 

1.  The  music  of  the  challengers  breathed,  from  time  to 
time,  wild  bursts,  expressive  of  triumph  or  defiance ; while 
the  clowns  grudged  a holiday  which  seemed  to  pass  away  in 
inactivity;  and  old  knights  and  nobles  lamented  the  decay 
of  martial  spirit,  and  spoke  of  the  triumphs  of  their  younger 
days.  Prince  John  began  to  talk  to  his  attendants  about 
making  ready  the  banquet,  and  the  necessity  of  adjudging 
the  prize  to  Brian  de  Bois  Guilbert,  who  had,  with  a single 
spear,  overthrown  two  knights,  and  foiled  a third. 

2.  At  length,  as  the  music  of  the  challengers  concluded 
one  of  those  long  and  high  flourishes  with  which  they  had 
broken  the  silence  of  the  lists,  it  was  answered  by  a solitary 
trumpet,  which  breathed  a note  of  defiance,  from  the  north- 
ern extremity.  All  eyes  were  turned  to  see  the  new  cham- 
pion which  these  sounds  announced,  and  no  sooner  were  the 
barriers  opened  than  he  paced  into  the  lists. 

3.  As  far  as  could  be  judged  of  a man  sheathed  in  armor, 
the  new  adventurer  did  not  greatly  exceed  the  middle  size, 
and  seemed  to  be  rather  slender  than  strongly  made.  His 
suit  of  armor  was  formed  of  steel,  richly  inlaid  with  gold; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


173 


and  the  device  on  his  shield  was  a young  oak-tree  pulled 
up  by  the  roots,  with  the  single  word  “Disinherited.’'  He 
was  mounted  on  a gallant  black  horse,  and  as  he  passed 
through  the  lists,  he  gracefully  saluted  the  prince  and  the 
ladies,  by  lowering  his  lance.  The  dexterity  with  which  he 
managed  his  steed,  and  something  of  youthful  grace  which 
he  displayed  in  his  manner,  won  him  the  favor  of  the  multi- 
tude, which  some  of  the  lower  classes  expressed  by  calling 
out,  “Touch  Ralph  de  Yipont’s  shield,  touch  the  Hospital- 
er’s shield;  he  has  the  least  sure  seat;  he  is  your  cheapest 
bargain.” 

4.  The  champion,  moving  onward  amid  the  well-meant 
hints,  ascended  the  platform  by  the  sloping  alley  which  led 
to  it  from  the  lists,  and,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  present, 
riding  straight  up  to  the  central  pavilion,  struck  with  the 
sharp  end  of  his  spear  the  shield  of  Brian  de  Bois  Gruilbert, 
until  it  rang  again.  All  stood  astonished  at  his  presump- 
tion, but  none  more  so  than  the  redoubted  knight  whom  he 
had  thus  defied  to  mortal  combat,  and  who,  little  expecting 
so  rude  a challenge,  was  standing  carelessly  at  the  door  of 
his  pavilion. 

5.  “Have  you  confessed  yourself,  brother,”  said  the  Tem- 
plar Guilbert,  “and  have  you  heard  mass  this  morning,  that 
you  peril  your  life  so  frankly?”  “I  am  fitter  to  meet  death 
than  thou  art,”  answered  the  Disinherited  Knight;  for  by 
this  name  the  stranger  had  recorded  himself  in  the  book  of 
the  tourney.  “Then  take  your  place  in  the  lists,”  said  De 
Bois  Guilbert,  “ and  look  your  last  upon  the  sun ; for  this 
night  thou  shalt  sleep  in  paradise.”  “ Gramercy  for  thy 
courtesy,”  replied  the  Disinherited  Knight;  “and  to  requite 
it,  I advise  thee  to  take  a fresh  horse  and  a new  lance,  for, 
by  my  honor,  you  will  need  both.” 

6.  Having  expressed  himself  thus  confidently,  he  reined 
his  horse  backward  down  the  slope  which  he  had  ascended, 
and  compelled  him  in  the  same  manner  to  move  backward 
through  the  lists,  till  he  reached  the  northern  extremity, 
where  he  remained  stationary,  in  expectation  of  his  antag- 
onist. This  feat  of  horsemanship  again  attracted  the  ap- 
plause of  the  multitude. 

7.  However  incensed  at  his  adversary  for  the  precaution 

15 


174 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


which  he  recommended,  the  Templar  did  not  neglect  his  ad- 
vice; for  his  honor  was  too  nearly  concerned  to  permit  his 
neglecting  any  means  which  might  insure  victory  over  his 
presumptuous  opponent.  He  changed  his  horse  for  a proved 
and  fresh  one  of  great  strength  and  spirit.  He  chose  a new 
and  tough  spear,  lest  the  wood  of  the  former  might  have 
been  strained  in  the  previous  encounters  he  had  sustained. 
Lastly,  he  laid  aside  his  shield,  which  had  received  some  little 
damage,  and  received  another  from  his  squires. 

8.  When  the  two  champions  stood  opposed  to  each  other 
at  the  two  extremities  of  the  lists,  the  public  expectation 
was  strained  to  the  highest  pitch.  Few  augured  the  possi- 
bility that  the  encounter  could  terminate  well  for  the  Dis- 
inherited Knight,  yet  his  courage  and  gallantry  secured  the 
general  good  wishes  of  the  spectators.  The  trumpets  had 
no  sooner  given  the  signal,  than  the  champions  vanished 
from  their  posts  with  the  speed  of  lightning,  and  closed  in 
the  center  of  the  lists  with  the  shock  of  a^  thunderbolt. 
The  lances  burst  into  shivers  up  to  the  very  grasp,  and  it 
seemed,  at  the  moment,  that  both  knights  had  fallen,  for 
the  shock  had  made  each  horse  recoil  backward  upon  its 
haunches.  The  address  of  the  riders  recovered  their  steeds 
by  the  use  of  the  bridle  and  spur;  and  having  glared  on 
each  other,  for  an  instant,  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  flash 
fire  through  the  bars  of  their  visors,  each  retired  to  the 
extremity  of  the  lists,  and  received  a fresh  lance  from  the 
attendants. 

9.  A loud  shout  from  the  spectators,  waving  of  scarfs 
and  handkerchiefs,  and  general  acclamations,  attested  the 
interest  taken  in  the  encounter.  But  no  sooner  had  the 
knights  resumed  their  station,  than  the  clamor  of  applause 
was  hushed  into  a silence  so  deep  and  so  dead,  that  it 
seemed  the  multitude  were  afraid  to  breathe.  A few  minutes’ 
pause  having  been  allowed,  that  the  combatants  and  their 
horses  might  recover  breath,  the  trumpets  again  sounded  the 
onset.  The  champions  a second  time  sprung  from  their  sta- 
tions, and  met  in  the  center  of  the  lists,  with  the  same  speed, 
the  same  dexterity,  the  same  violence,  but  not  the  same  equal 
fortune  as  before, 

10.  In  the  second  encounter,  the  Templar  aimed  at  the 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


175 


center  of  his  antagonist’s  shield,  and  struck  it  so  fairly  and 
forcibly,  that  his  spear  went  to  shivers,  and  the  Disinherited 
Knight  reeled  in  his  saddle.  On  the  other  hand,  the  cham- 
pion had,  in  the  beginning  of  his  career,  directed  the  point 
of  his  lance  toward  Bois  Guilbert’s  shield;  but  changing  his 
aim  almost  in  the  moment  of  encounter,  he  addressed  to  the 
helmet,  a mark  more  difficult  to  hit,  but  which,  if  attained, 
rendered  the  shock  more  irresistible.  Fair  and  true  he  hit 
the  Templar  on  the  visor,  where  h:s  lance’s  point  kept  hold 
of  the  bars.  Yet  even  at  this  disadvantage,  Bois  Guilbert 
sustained  his  high  reputation ; and  had  not  the  girths  of  his 
saddle  burst,  he  might  not  have  been  unhorsed.  As  it 
chanced,  however,  saddle,  horse,  and  man,  rolled  on  the 
ground  under  a cloud  of  dust. 

11.  To  extricate  himself  from  the  stirrups  and  fallen  steed, 
was  to  the  Templar  scarce  the  work  of  a moment ; and  stung  * 
with  madness,  both  at  his  disgrace,  and  the  acclamations  by 
which  it  was  hailed  by  the  spectators,  he  drew"  his  sword,  and 
waved  it  in  defiance  of  his  conqueror.  The  Disinherited 
Knight  sprung  from  his  steed',  and  also  unsheathed  his 
sword\  The  marshals  of  the  field,  however,  spurred  their 
horses  between'  them,  and  reminded  them  that  the  daws  of 
the  tournament  did  not,  on  the  present  occasion,  permit 
this  species  of  encounter',  but  that  to  the  “Disinherit- 
ed Knight'”  the  meed  of  victory  was  fairly  and  honorably 
awarded. 


LXIL— THE  BANNER  OF  PULASKI. 

From  Longfellow. 

Pulaski  was  a Polish  officer  who  took  part  with  the  Americans,  and 
fell  at  the  taking  of  Savannah,  during  the  American  revolution.  His 
standard  of  crimson  silk  was  presented  to  him  by  the  Moravians  of  Beth- 
lehem, Pennsylvania,  and  it  became  his  shroud. 

» 1.  When  the  dying  flame  of  day, 

Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head; 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 


176 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 

That  proud  banner,  which,  with  prayer. 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns’  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 
Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

2.  “Take  thy  bannerM — may  it  wave 
Proudly  o’er  the  good  .and  brave, 

When  the  battle’s  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 

When  the  clarion’s  music  thrills 
To  the  heart  of  these  lone  hills. 

When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes. 

And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

3.  Take  thy  banner!  and,  beneath 
The  war-cloud’s  encircling  wreath, 

Guard  it — till  our  homes  are  free; 

Guard^  it — God  will  prosper  thee! 

In  the  dark  and  trying  hour. 

In  the  breaking  forth  of  power. 

In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men. 

His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

4.  Take  thy  banner'' ! But  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight. 

If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 

Spare^  him ! — By  our  holy  vow. 

By  our  prayers  and  many  tears. 

By  the  mercy  that  endears, 

Spare^  him! — he  our  love  hath  shared! 
Spare'^  him! — as  thou  wouldst  be  spared! 

5.  Take  thy  bannerM — and  if  e’er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier’s  bier, 

And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet. 

Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee.” 

And  the  warrior  took  that  banner  proud^, 

And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


177 


LXIIL— THE  DOWNFALL  OF  POLAND. 

From  Campbell. 

Thomas  Campbell  is  the  most  classical  poet  of  the  present  century, 
and  there  are  few  modern  bards  whose  works  are  more  likely  to  be 
ranked  among  the  standard  classics  of  the  language.  He  died  in  1844. 
Pan'dours;  Hungarian  soldiers. 

Hus-sars';  Hungarian  horsemen. 

1.  O sacred  Truth!  thy  triumph  ceased  awhile, 

And  Hope,  thy  sister,  ceas€:d  with  thee  to  smile. 

When  leagued  Oppression  poured  to  northern  wars 
Her  whiskered  pandours  and  hei;^ fierce  hussars. 

Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 

Pealed  her  loud  drum  and  twanged  her  trumpet  horn; 
Tumultuous  horrOr  brooded  o’er  her  van, 

Presaging  wrath  to  -Poland, — and  to  man  ! 

2.  Warsaw’s  last  champion,  from  her  height  surveyed. 

Wide  o’er  the  fields  a Avaste  of  ruin  laid; 

(A)  “O  Heaven!  ” he  cried,  “my  bleeding  country  save! 

Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  shield  the  brave? 

Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  those  lovely  plains, 

Rise'',  fellow-men  ! our  country^  yet  remains ! 

By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high^, 

And  swear  for  her — to  live- — with  her — to  die!'" 

3.  (1)  He  said'',  a.nd  on  the  rampart-heights  arrayed 
His  trusty  warriors,  few,  but  undismayed; 

Firm-paced  and  slow,  a horrid  front  they  form. 

Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm; 

Low  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 

Revenge  or  deaths — the  Avatch-word^  and  reply^; 

(A)  Then  pealed  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 

And  the  loud  tocsin  tolled  their  last  alarm. 

4 In  Amin,  alas!  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few! 

From  rank  to  rank,  your  volleyed  thunder  flew! 

Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  time, 

Sarmatia  felP,  unwept,  without  a crime; 

PYund  not  a generous  friend,  a pitying  foe. 

Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe! 

Dropped  from  her  nerAmless  grasp  the  shattered  spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  career; 

Hope,  for  a season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 

And  Freedom  shrieked — as  Kosciusko  fell ! 


178 


NEW  8IXTH  READER. 


The  sun  went  down^,  nor  ceased  the  carnage  there'^, 
Tumultuous  murder  shook  the  midnight  air; 

On  Prague’s  proud  arch  the  tires  of  ruin  glow, 

His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below; 

The  storm  prevails',  the  rampart  yields  away, 

Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay ! 

Hark' ! as  the  smoldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 

A thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call ! 

Earth  shook,  red  meteors  flashed  along  the  sky, 

And  conscious  Nature  shuddered  at  the  cry! 

6.  (A)  O righteous  Heaven!  ere  Freedom  found  a graved 
Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save  ? 

Where  was  thine^  arm,  O Vengeance!  where  thy  rod. 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God ; • 

That  crushed  proud  Ammon,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoked  in  wrath  and  thundered  from  afar? 
Where  was  the  storm  that  slumbered  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stained  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling  coast; 
Then  bade  the  deep  in  wild  commotion  flow, 

And  heaved  an  ocean  on  their  march  below? 

1.  Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead^! 

Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled^! 

Friends  of  the  world^ ! restore  your  swords  to  man. 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause  and  lead  the  van ! 

Yet,  for  Sarmatia  s tears  of  blood,  atone. 

And  make  her  arm  puissant  as  your  own! 

Oh ! once  again  to  Freedom’s  cause  return 
The  patriot  Tell' — the  Bruce  of  Bannockburn'! 


LXIV.— SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

From  Hayne. 

Mr.  Hayne  was  a Senator  in  Congress  from  the  State  of  South 
Carolina.  This  is  an  extract  from  a speech  delivered  by  him,  while 
a member  of  that  body. 

1.  If  there  be  one  state  in  the  Union,  Mr.  President,  that 
may  challenge  comparison  with  any  other,  for  a uniform, 
zealous,  ardent,  and  uncalculating  devotion  to  the  Union', 
that  state  is  South  Carolina^.  Sir',  from  the  very  commence- 
ment of  the  revolution',  up  to  this  hour',  there  is  no  sacri- 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


179 


fice,  however  great,  she  has  not  cheerfully  made\  no  service 
she  has  ever  hesitated  to  perform. 

2.  She  has  adhered  to  you  in  your  prosperity';  but  in 
your  adversity',  she  has  clung  to  you  with  more  than  filial 
affection'.  No  matter  what  was  the  condition  of  her  domes- 
tic affairs;  though  deprived  of  her  resources',  divided  by 
parties',  or  surrounded  by  difiiculties',  the  call  of  the  coun- 
try has  been  to  her  as  the  voice  of  Grod'.  Domestic  discord 
ceased  at  the  sound';  every  man  became  at  once  reconciled 
to  his  brethren',  and  the  sons  of  Carolina  were  all  seen, 
crowding  together  to  the  temple,  bringing  their  gifts  to  the 
altar  of  their  common  country'. 

3.  What,  sir,  was  the  conduct  of  the  South,  during  the 
revolution?  Sir,  I honor  New  England,  for  her  conduct  in 
that  glorious  struggle.  But  great  as  is  the  praise  which 
belongs  to  her',  I think  at  least  equal  honor  is  due  to  the 
South.  Never"  were  there  exhibited,  in  the  history  of  the 
world^^  higher  examples  of  noble  daring',  dreadful  suffer- 
ing', and  heroic  endurance',  than  by  the  whigs  of  Carolina, 
during  the  revolution'.  The  whole  state^  from  the  moun- 
tains to  the  sea,  was  overrun  by  an  overwhelming  force  of 
the  enemy.  The  fruits  of  industry  perished  on  the  spot 
where  they  were  produced,  or  were  consumed  by  the  foe. 

4.  The  plains  of  Carolina  drank  up  the  most  precious 
blood  of  her  citizens.  Black,  smoking  ruins  marked  the 
places  which  had  been  the  habitation  of  her  children. 
Driven  from  their  homes  into  the  gloomy  and  almost  im- 
penetrable swamps,  even  there^^  the  spirit  of  liberty  sur- 
vived', and  South  Carolina,  sustained  by  the  example  of 
her  Sumters'  and  her  Marions',  proved,  by  her  conduct, 
that  though  her  soit  might  be  overrun,  the  spirit  of  her 
people'  was  invincible. 


180 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


LXV.— MASSACHUSETTS  AND  SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

From  Webster. 

Daniel  Webster  was  born  in  1782.  He  graduated  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  and  established  himself  in  the  practice  of  the  law  in  New 
Hampshire.  Tie  became  a member  of  Congress  av.  the  age  of  thirty, 
in  which  he  continued,  with  few  intermissions,  until  his  death,  hold- 
ing the  foremost  rank  as  an  orator,  statesman,  and  expounder  of  the 
Constitution.  This  is  an  extract  from  his  answer  to  the  preceding 
speech.  He  died  in  1852. 

1.  The  eulogium  pronounced  on  the  character  of  the 
State  of  South  Carolina,  by  the  honorable  gentleman,  for 
her  revolutionary  and  other  merits,  meets  my  hearty  con- 
currence. I shall  not  acknowledge  that  the  honorable  mem- 
ber goes  before  me,  in  regard  for  whatever  of  distinguished 
talent  or  distinguished  character.  South  Carolina  has  pro- 
duced. I claim  part  of  the  honor;  I partake  in  the  pride 
of  her  great  names.  I claim  them  for  countrymen',  one'  and 
alV — the  Laurenses',  the  Rutledges',  the  Pinckneys',  the 
Sumters',  the  " Marions' — Americans  alV — whose  fame  is 
no  more  to  be  hemmed  in  by  state  lines,  than  their  tal- 
ents and  patriotism  were  capable  of  being  circumscribed 
within  the  same  narrow  limits. 

2.  In  their  day  and  generation,  they  served  and  honored 
the  country,  and  the  whole'"  country,  and  their  renown  is  of 
the  treasures'  of  the  whole  country.  Him"^  whose  honored 
name  the  gentleman  himself^  bears, — does  he  suppose  me  less 
capable  of  gratitude  for  his'  patriotism,  or  sympathy  for  his' 
suffering,  than  if  his  eyes  had  first  opened  upon  the  light  in 
Massachusetts,  instead  of  South  Carolina' ! Sir,  does  he 
suppose  it  in  his  power  to  exhibit  in  Carolina  a name  so 
bright  as  to  produce  envy  in  my  bosom'?  No,  sir, — in- 
creased gratification^  and  delight'"  rather.  Sir,  I thank  Clod', 
that,  if  I am  gifted  with  little  of  the  spirit  which  is  said  to 
be  able  to  raise  mortals'  to  the  skies',  I have  yet  none', 
as  I trust,  of  that  other'  spirit,  which  would  drag  angels' 
down  . 

3.  When  I shall  be  found,  sir,  in  my  place  here  in  the 
senate,  or  elsewhere,  to  sneer  at  public  merit,  because  it 
happened  to  spring  up  beyond  the  little  limits  of  my  oion' 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


181 


state  or  neigborhood ; when  I refuse  for  any  such  cause,  or 
for  arvy^  cause,  the  homage  due  to  American  talent,  to  ele- 
vated patriotism,  to  sincere  devotion  to  liberty  and  the  coun- 
try'; or  if  I see  an  uncommon  endowment  of  Heaven';  if  I 
see  extraordinary  capacity  or  virtue  in  any  son  of  the  South' ; 
and  if,  moved  by  local  prejudice^ ^ or  gangrened  by  state  JeaZ- 
I get  up  here  to  abate  a tithe  of  a hair^  from  his  just 
character  and  just  fame',  may  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof 
of  my  mouth. 

4.  Mr.  President,  I , shall  enter  on  no  encomium  upon 
Massachusetts.  She  needs'  none.  There  she  is';  behold 
her,  and  judge  for  yourselves.  There  is  her  history';  the 
world  knows  it  by  heart.  The  past\  at  least,  is  secure'. 
There  is  Boston',  and  Concord',  and  Lexington',  and  Bun- 
ker-Hi'l';  and  there  they  will  remain  forever'.  And,  sir, 
where  American  Liberty  raised  its  first  voice,  and  where  its 
youth  was  nurtured  and  sustained',  there  it  still  lives'",  in 
the  strength  of  its  manhood,  and  full  of  its  original  spirit. 
If  discord  and  disunion  shall  wound'  it;  if  party  strife  and 
blind  ambition  shall  hawk  at  and  tear  it;  if  folly  and  mad- 
ness, if  uneasiness  under  salutary  restraint',  shall  succeed  to 
separate  it  from  that  Union',  by  which  alone  its  existeiice 
is  made  sure',  it  will  stand,  in  the  end,  by  the  side  of  that 
cradle  in  which  its  infancy  was  rocked';  it  will  stretch  forth 
its  arm  with  whatever  of  vigor  it  may  still  retain,  over  the 
friends  who  gathered  around  it ; and  it  will  fall  at  last,  if 
fall  it  must',  amid  the  proudest  monuments  of  its  glory  and 
on  the  very  spot  of  its  origin. 


LXVI.— THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  HERCULANEUM. 

From  Atherstone. 

Herculaneum  and  Pompeii  were  cities  of  Italy,  which  were  destroyed 
by  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius,  being  entirely  buried  under  ashes  and  lava. 
During  the  last  century,  they  have  been  dug  out  to  a considerable  ex- 
tent, and  the  streets,  buildings,  and  utensils  have  been  found  in  a state 
of  perfect  preservation. 

1.  There  was  a man^, 

A Roman  soldier,  for  some  daring  deed 
That  trespassed  on  the  laws,  in  dungeon  low 


182 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Chained  down.  His  was  a noble  spirit,  rough, 

But  generous,  and  brave,  and  kind. 

He  had  a son^ ; it  was  a rosy  boy, 

A little  faithful  copy  of  his  sire. 

In  face  and  gesture.  From  infancy,  the  child 
Had  been  his  father  s solace  and  his  care. 

2.  Every  sport 

The  father  shared  and  heightened.  But  at  length, 

The  rigorous  law  had  grasped  him,  and  condemned 
To  fetters  and  to  darkness. 

3.  The  captive’s  lot. 

He  felt  in  all  its  bitterness : the  wajls 

Of  his  deep  dungeon  answered  many  a sigh 

And  heart-heaved  groan.  His  tale  was  known,  and  touched 

His  jailer  with  compassion^  ; and  the  boy, 

Thenceforth  a frequent  visitor,  beguiled 
His  father’s  lingering  hours,  and  brought  a balm 
With  his  loved  presence,  that  in  every  wound 
Dropped  healing.  But,  in  this  terrific  hour, 

He  was  a poisoned  arrow^  in  the  breast 
Where  he  had  been  a cure. 

4.  With  earliest  morn 
Of  that  first  day  of  darkness  and  amaze. 

He  came.  The  iron  door  was  closed^ — for  them 
Never  to  open  more!  The  day^,  the  nighD 
Dragged  slowly  by^;  nor  did  they  know  the  fate 
Impending  o’er  the  city.  Well  they  heard 
The  pent-up  thunders  in  the  earth  beneath, 

Axidifelt  its  giddy  rocking;  and  the  air 
Grew  hoi^  at  length,  and  thick"^ ; but  in  his  straw 
The  boy  was  sleeping' : and  the  father  hoped 
The  earthquake  might  pass  by'' : nor  would  he  wake 
From  his  sound  rest  the  unfearing  child,  nor  tell 
The  dangers  of  their  state. 

5.  (T)  On  his  low  couch 
The  fettered  soldier  sank,  and  with  deep  awe. 

Listened  the  fearful  sounds' : with  upturned  eye, 

To  the  great  gods  he  breathed  a prayer;  then,  strove 
To  calm  himself,  and  lose  in  sleeps  awhile 

His  useless  terrors.  But  he  could^  not  sleep : 

His  body  burned  vfiih.  feverish  heat';  his  chains 
Clanked  loud^  although  he  moved  not';  deep  in  earth 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


183 


Groaned  unimaginable  thunders^ ; sounds, 

Fearful  and  ominous,  arose  and  died^, 

Like  the  sad  meanings  of  November  s wind, 

In  the  blank  midnight,  {ll)  Deepest  horror  chilled 
His  blood  that  burned  before : cold,  clammy  sweats 
Came  o’er  him;  then  anon,  a fiery  thrill 
Shot  through  his  veins.  Now,  on  his  couch  he  shrunk, 

And  shivered  as  in  fear^ ; now,  upright  leaped. 

As  though  he  heard  the  battle  trumpet  sound, 

And  longed  to  cope  with  death. 

6.  He  slept^,  at  last, 

A troubled,  dreamy  sleep.  Well  had  he  slept 
Never  to  waken  more!  His  hours  are  few, 

But  terrible  his  agony. 

7.  Soon  the  storm  , 

Burst  forth ; the  lightnings  glanced' ; the  air 

Shook'^  with  the  thunders.  They  awoke' ; they  sprung 
Amazed  upon  their  feet'.  The  dungeon  glowed 
A moment  as  in  sunshine — and  was  dark : 

Again,  a fiood  of  white  fiame  fills  the  cell. 

Dying  away  upon  the  dazzled  eye 
In  darkening,  quivering  tints,  as  stunning  sound^ 

Dies  throbbing,  ringing  in  the  ear. 

8 With  intensest  awe. 

The  soldier’s  frame  was  filled' ; and  many  a thought 
Of  strange  foreboding  hurried  through  his  mind, 

As  underneath  he  felt  the  fevered  earth 
Jarring  and  lifting';  and  the  massive  walls. 

Heard  harshly  grate  and  strain':  yet  knew  he  not. 

While  evils  undefined  and  yet  to  come 

Glanced  through  his  thoughts,  what  deep  and  cureless  wound 
Fate  had  alread^^  given. — Where^^  man  of  woe^  ! 

Where^j  wretched  father^ ! is  thy  /^oy'  f Thou  call’st 
His  name  in  vain' : — he  can  not  answer'  thee. 

‘ U JjQudly  the  father  called  upon  his  child' : 

No  voice  replied'.  Trembling  and  anxiously 
He  searched  their  couch  of  straw';  with  headlong  haste 
Trod  round  his  stinted  limits,  and,  low  bent, 

Groped  darkling  on  the  earth': — n5  child  was  there. 

(A)  Again'  he  called  : again',  at  farthest  stretch 
Of  his  accursed  fetters,  till  the  blood 
Seemed  bursting  from  his  ears,  and  from  his  eyes 


184 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Fire  flashed,  he  strained  with  arm  extended  far, 

And  fingers  widely  spread,  greedy  to  touch 
Though  but  his  idol's  garment.  Useless  toiD! 

Yet  still  renewed' : still  round  and  round  he  goes, 

And  strains^,  and  snatches^,  and  with  dreadful  cries 
Calls'^  on  his  boy. 

10.  (hh)  Mad  frenzy  fires  him  now. 

He  plants  against  the  wall  his  feet' ; his  chain 
Grasps^ ; tugs^  with  giant  strength  to  force  away 

The  deep-driven  staple';  yells^  and  shrieks  with  rage; 
And,  like  a desert  lion  in  the  snare, 

Raging  to  break  his  toils, — to  and  fro  bounds'. 

(f)  But  see  ! the  ground  is  opening' ; — a blue  light 
Mounts,  gently  waving', — noiseless; — thin  and  cold 
It  seems,  and  like  a rainbow'  tint,  not  flame ; 

But  by  its  luster,  on  the  earth  outstretched. 

Behold  the  lifeless  child!  his  dress  is  singed, 

And,  o’er  his  face  serene,  a darkened  line 
Points  out  the  lightning’s  track. 

11.  {ll)  The  father  saw. 

And  all  his  fury  fled': — a dead  calm  fell 

That  instant  on'  him: — speechless^ — fixed^ — he  stood'', 
And  with  a look  that  never  wanderecF ^ gazed 
Intensely  on  the  corse'.  Those  laughing  eyes^ 

Were  not  yet  closed', — and  round  those  ruby  lips 
The  wonted  smile  returned'. 

12.  Silent  and  pale 
The  father  stands' : — no  tear  is  in  his  eye  : — 

The  thunders  bellow'; — but  he  hears  them  noU: — * 

The  ground  lifts  like  a sea'; — he  knows'^  it  noP  : — 

The  strong  walls  grind  and  gape' : — the  vaulted  roof 
Takes  shape  like  bubble  tossing  in  the  wind' ; 

See ! he  looks  up  and  smiles' ; for  death  to  him 
I Is  happiness'.  Yet  could  one  last  embrace 
Be  given^,  ’twere  still  a sweeter^  thing  to  die. 

13.  It  will^  be  given.  (A)  Look' ! how  the  rolling  ground, 
At  every  swell,  nearer  and  still  more  near 

Moves  toward  the  father’s  outstretched  arm  his  boy. 
Once  he  has  touched  his  garment' : — how  his  eye 
Lightens  with  love,  and  hope,  and  anxious  fears'! 

Ha',  see'!  he  has'^  him  now! — he  clasps  him  round; 
Kisses  his  face ; puts  back  the  curling  locks, 


RCLECTIC  SERIES. 


185 


That  shaded  his  fine  brow ; looks  in  his  eyes ; 
Grasps^  in  his  own  those  little  dimpled  hands^ ; 

(1)  Then  folds  him  to  his  breast,  as  he  was  wont 
To  lie  when  sleeping;  and  resigned,  awaits 
Undreaded  death. 

14.  (ll)  And  death  came  soon  and  swift 

And  pangless.  The  liQge  pile  sank  down  at  once 
Into  the  opening  earth.  Walls — arches^ — roof  ^ — 
And  deep  foundation  stones — all — mingling — felU  1 


LXVII.— THE  KNAVE  UNMASKED. 

From  Shakspeare. 

Scene  I. — Camp  before  Florence. 

Enter  Count  Rosencrantz,  the  captain  of  horse  in  the  Duke 

of  Florence  s army^  and  Capt.  Dumain  and  his  brother^  two 

officers  under  the  Count. 

Is^  Capt.  Dumain.  Nay,  good,  my  lord,  try  him.  If  your 
lordship  find  him  not  a knave,  take  me  henceforth  for  a fool. 

2id  Capt.  Dumain.  On  my  life',  my  lord',  he  is  a mere 
bubble. 

Count  Rosencrantz.  Do  you  think  I am  so  far  deceived' 
in  him? 

Is^  Capt.  D.  Believe  it,  my  lord.  To  my  certain  knowl- 
edge, without  any  malice,  but  to  speak  of  him  as  gently  as 
if  he  were  my  hinsmaF^  he ’s  a notorious  coward,  an  infinite 
and  endless  liar,  an  hourly  promise-breaker,  and  the  owner 
of  no  one  good^  quality  worthy  your  lordship’s  respect. 

2id  Capt.  D.  It  is  important  that  you  should  understand 
him,  lest,  reposing  too  far  in  a virtue  which  he  hath  not,  he 
might,  on  some  important  occasion,  in  some  pressing  danger, 
fail  you. 

Count  R.  I would  I knew  in  what  particular  action  to  try 
him. 

2d  Capt.  D.  None  better  than  to  let  him  fetch  off  his  drum, 
which  you  heard  him  so  confidently  undertake'  to  do. 

Capt.  D.  I',  with  a troop  of  Florentines,  will  suddenly 
surprise'  him.  I will  have  men  whom,  I am  sure,  he  knows 


186 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


not  from  the  enemy.  We  will  bind  and  hoodwink  him  so, 
that  he  shall  suppose  he  is  carried  into  the  enemy’s  camp, 
when  we  bring  him  to  our  tents.  Be  but  your  lordship  pres- 
ent at  the  examination ; if  he  do  not\  for  the  promise  of  his 
life,  and  under  the  compulsion  of  base  fear,  vilify  us  all^  offer 
to  betray  you^  and  deliver  all  the  intelligence  in  his  power 
against  you,  and  that  with  the  forfeit  of  his  soul  upon  oath, 
never  trust  my  judgment  in  any  thing. 

2id  Capt.  D.  0 for  the  love  of  laughter,  let  him  fetch  his 
drum;  he  says  he  has  a stratagem' for ’t.  When  your  lordship 
sees  the  upshot  of  this  affair,  and  to  what  metal  this  counter- 
feit lump  of  ore  will  be  melted,  if  you  give  him  not  John 
Drum’s  entertainment,  your  partiality  is  indeed  beyond  the 
influence  of  reason.  Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Delgrado. 

1st  Capt.  D.  0 for  the  love  of  laughter,  hinder  not  the 
humor  of  his  design ; let  him  fetch  off  his  drum,  anyhow. 

Count  R.  How  now'.  Monsieur'  ? This  drum  sticks  sorely 
in  your  disposition. 

2id  Capt.  D.  Hang'  it,  let  it  go' ; ’t  is  but  a drum. 

Delgrado.  But  a drum' 1 Is ’t  but  a drum'?  A drum  so 
lost ! 

2d  Capt.  D.  It  was  a disaster  of  war  that  Caesar  himself"' 
could  not  have  prevented,  if  he  had  been  there  to  command. 

Count  R.  Weir,  we  have  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  our 
success'.  Some  dishonor  we  had  in  the  loss  of  that  drum', 
but  it  is  not  to  be  recovered. 

Del.  It  might'  have  been  recovered. 

Count  R.  It  mighty  but  it  is  not  7iovx 

Del.  It  iV  to  be  recovered ; but  that  the  merit  of  seiwice 
is  seldom  attached  to  the  real  performer,  I would  have  that"' 
drum  or  another'^  or  hie  jacet. 

Count  R.  Why,  if  you  have  a stomach'  to ’t.  Monsieur', 
if  you  think  your  skill  in  stratagem  can  recover'  this  instru- 
ment of  honor,  be  magnanimous  in  the  enterprise,  and  go  on. 
I will  do  honor  to  the  attempt  as  a worthy  exploit.  If  you 
speed  well  in  it,  the  Duke  shall  both  speak  of  it,  and  extend 
to  you  what  ful-ther  becomes  his  greatness,  even  to  the  utmost 
extent  of  your  merit. 

Del.  By  the  hand  of  a soldier,  I will  undertake  it. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


187 


Count  R.  But  you  must  not  now  slumber'  in  it. 

Del.  I ’ll  about  it  this  evening.  I will  contrive  my  plans', 
prepare  myself  for  the  encounter',  and,  by  midnight,  look  to 
hear  further  from  me. 

Count  R.  I know  thou  art  valiant.  Farewell! 

Del.  I love  not  many  words.  \_Exit. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  No  more  than  a fish  loves  loater.  Is  not  this 
a strange  fellow,  my  lord,  that  so  confidently  undertakes  this 
business,  which  he  knows  is  not  to  be  done  ? 

2d  Capt.  D.  You  do  not  hioiR  him,  my  lord,  as  we'  do : 
certain  it  is,  that  he  will  steal  himself  into  a man’s  favor,  and 
for  a week  escape  discovery' ; but  when  you  find  him  out,  you 
have  him  ever  after. 

Count  R.  Why,  do  you  think  he  will  make  no  attempt  at 
the  deed,  which  he  so  boldly  and  seriously  promises? 

\st  Capt.,D.  None  in  the  world;  but  return  with  an  in- 
vention, and  clap  upon  you  two  or  three  plausible  lies ; but 
we  have  almost  encompassed'  him ; you  shall  see  him  fall 
to-night ; for,  indeed,  he  is  not  worthy  of  your  lordship’s 
confidence.  y_Exeunt. 

Scene  II. — Without  the  Florentine  Camp. 

Enter  Capt.  Dumain,  with  five  or  six  soldiers  in  amhush. 

Capt.  D.  He  can  come  no  other  w?«.y  but  by  this  hedge 
corner.  When  you  sally  upon  him,  speak  what  terrible 
language  you  will ; though  you  understand  it  not  yourselves^ 
no  matter;  for  we  must  not  seem  to  understand  him;  but 
some  one  among  us  must  be  an  interpreter. 

1st  Soldier.  Grood  Captain,  let  me^  be  the  interpreter. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  Are  you  not  acquainted  with  him?  Knows 
he  not  your  voice? 

ls<  Sold.  No,  sir,  I warrant  you. 

1st  Gapi.  D.  But  what  linsey-woolsey  have  you  to  speak 
to  us  again? 

ls/5  Sold.  Even  such  as  you  speak  to  me. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  He  must  think  us  some  band  of  strangers  in 
the  enemy’s  army.  Now,  he  hath  a smack  of  all  neighbor- 
ing languages;  therefore,  we  must  all  gabble,  each  after  his 
own  fancy;  so  we  seem  to  know  what  we  say,  is  to  know 
straight  to  our  purpose.  As  for  you,  interpreter,  you  must 


188 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


seem  very  politic.  But,  hide : ho  ! here  he  comes ; to  beguile 
two  hours  in  sleep,  and  then  to  return  and  swear  to  the  lies 
he  forges. 

Enter  Delgrado. 

Del.  Ten  o’clock : within  these  two  hours  t’  will  be  time 
enough  to  go  home.  What  shall  I say  I have  done?  It  must 
be  a very  plausible  invention  that  carries  it.  They  begin  to 
smoke'  me;  and  disgraces  have,  of  late,  knocked  too  often 
at  my  door.  I find  my  tongue  is  too  fool -hardy ; but  my 
heart  hath  the  fear  of  Mars  before  it,  and  of  his  creatures, 
not  daring  to  make  good  the  reports  of  my  tongue. 

Capt.  D.  This  is  the  first  truth  that  thy  tongue  was 
ever  guilty  of.  \_Aside. 

Del.  What  madness'"  should  move  me  to  undertake  the 
recovery  of  this  drum;  being  not  ignorant  of  the  impossi- 
bility, and  knowing'^  I had  no  such  purpose?  I must  give 
myself  some  hurts,  and  say,  I got  them  in  the  exploit.  Yet 
slight  ones  will  not  carry  it : they  will  say  : — Come  you  off  with 
so  little  f — and  great  ones  I dare"  not  give.  Tongue',  I must 
put  you  into  a butter- woman’s  mouth,  and  buy  another  of 
Bajazet’s  mule,  if  you  prattle  me  into  these""  perils. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  Is  it  possible,  he  should  know'  what  he  is, 
and  he^  what  he  is?  \^Aside. 

Del.  I would  the  cutting  of  my  garments  would  serve  the 
turn ; or  the  breaking  of  m_y  Spanish  sword. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  We  can  not  let  you  off  so.  \^Aside. 

Del.  Or  the  shaving  of  my  beard',  and  say  it  was  in 
stratagem'. 

1st  Capt.  D.  ’T  would  not  do.  [^Aside. 

Del.  Or  to  drown  my  clothes',  and  say,  I was  stripped'. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  Hardly  serve.  \_Aside. 

Del.  Though  I swore  I leaped  from  the  window  of  the 
citadel' — 

Is^  Capt.  D.  How  deep?  \_Aside. 

Del.  Thirty  fathom. 

Capt.  D.  Three  great  oaths  would  scarce  make  that  be 
believed'.  \^Aside. 

Del.  I would  I had  any  drum  of  the  enemy’s;  I would 
swear'".,  I had  recovered  it. 

Is^  Copt.  D.  You  shall  hear""  one  anon. 


l^Aside. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


189 


Del,  A drum  now  of  the  enemy’s!  [^Alarm  within, 

Is^  Capt.  D.  Throca  movoiisus,  cargo,  cargo,  cargo. 

All.  Cargo,  cargo,  villianda  par  cargo,  cargo. 

Del.  O ! ransom' ! ransom' ! — do  not  hide  mine  eyes'. 

\Theif  seize  him  and  blindfold  him. 
Is^  Sold.  Boskos  thromuklo  boskos. 

Del.  I know  you  are  the  Muskos’  regiment. 

And  I shall  lose  my  life  for  want  of  language : 

If  there  be  here  German,  or  Dane,  Low  Dutch, 

Italian,  or  French,  let  him  speaJc^  to  me; 

I will  discover  that,  which  shall  undo^ 

The  Florentine. 

1st  Sold.  Boskos  vanvado  : — 

I understand'  thee,  and  can  speak  thy  tongue; — 

Kerely  bonto : — Sir ; 

Betake  thee  to  thy  faith,  for  seventeen  poniards 
Are  at  thy  bosom. 

Del.  Oh!  oh!  oh! 

Is^  Sold.  O pray',  pray',  pray, — 

Manka  ravania  dulche. 

Is^  Capt..  D.  Oscorbi  dulchos  volivorca. 

Is^  Sold.  The  general  is  content  to  spare  thee  yet-; 

And,  hoodwinked  as  thou  art,  will  lead  thee  on 
To  gather  news  from  thee;  perhaps,  thou  may’st  inform 
Something  to  save  thy  life. 

Del.  0,  let  me  live. 

And  all  the  secrets  of  our  camp  I T1  show; 

Their  force',  their  purposes' ; nay,  I ’ll  spcaK  that, 

Which  thou  wilt  wonder'  at. 

Sold.  But  wilt  thou  speak  trulj'? 

Del.  If  I do  not,  hang'  me  for  a spy. 

Sold.  Acordo  linta — 

Come  on',  thou  art  granted  space. 

( Exit^  with  Dt  lgrad.o  guarded. 
Is/  Capt.  D.  Go',  tell  Count  Bosencrantz  and  m3"  brother. 
We  have  caught  the  woodcock,  and  will  keep  hira  muffled, 
Till  we  do  hear'  from  them. 

2d  Sold.  Captain,  I will. 

1st  Capt.  D.  He  will  betray  us  all  unto  ourselves : 

Inform  ’em  that\ 

16 


190 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


2d  Sold.  So  I will,  sir. 

Capt.  D.  Till  then  I T1  keep  him  dark  and  safely 
locked.  \_Exeunt. 

Scene  ITE. — The  Florentine  Camp. 

Enter  Captain  Dumain,  his  brother  and  soldiers. 

1st  Capt.  D.  Shall  we  not  have  the  Count  to-night? 

2d  Capt.  D.  Yes,  at  the  appointed  hour. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  That  approaches  apace : I would  gladly  have 
him  see  his  follower  anatomized,  that  he  might  take  a meas- 
ure of  his  own  judgment,  in  which  he  hath  set  him  so  high. 

2d  Capt.  D.  We  will  not  meddle  with  him  till  he  come. 
But  here  is  his  lordship  now. 

Enter  Count  Rosencrantz. 

Count  R.  Come,  shall  we  have  this  dialogue  between  the 
fool  and  the  soldier?  Bring  forth  this  counterfeit  model; 
he  has  deceived  me,  like  a double  meaning  prophesier. 

Capt.  D.  Bring  him  forth.  \_Exeunt  Soldiers.~^  He 
has  set  in  the  stocks  all  night,  poor  knave. 

Count  R.  No  matter;  his  heels  have  deserved  it,  in  usurp- 
ing spw^s^  so  long.  How  does  he  carry"  himself? 

Is/!  Capt.  D.  I have  told  your  lordship  already ; the  stocks 
carry  him.  But,  to  answer  you  as  you  would  be  understood, 
he  weeps  like  a sick  girl : he  hath  confessed  himself  to 
Morgan,  whom  he  supposes  to  be  a friar,  from  the  time  of 
his  remembrance,  to  the  very  instant  of  his  setting  in  the 
stocks.  And  what  think  you  he  has  confessed? 

Count  R.  Nothing  of  has  he? 

2d  Capt.  D.  His  confession  is  taken,  and  shall  be  read  to 
his  face.  If  your  lordship  be  in  it,  as  I believe  you  are,  you 
must  have  the  patience  to  hear  it . 

Re-enter  Soldiers,  with  Helgrado. 

Count  R.  A^Zaywe'upon  him!  muffled!  he  can' say  noth- 
ing of  me;  hush!  hushJ 

2d  Capt.  D.  Porto  tartarossa. 

Is^  Sold,  He  calls  for  tortures ; what  will  you  say  without 
them  ? 

Del.  I will  confess  what  i know,  without  constraint ; if 
pinch  me  like  a pasty,  T can  say  no  more. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


191 


Is^  Sold.  Bosko  chimurclio. 

2d  Capt.  D.  Boblifindo  chicurmusco. 

Is^  Sold.  You  are  a merciful  general.  Our  general  bids 
you  answer  to  what  I ask  you  out  of  a note. 

Del.  And  truly'  as  I hope  to  live. 

Sold.  ^Reading.^  First  demand  of  him^  how  many 
horses  the  Duke  is  strong.  What  say  you  to  that? 

Del.  Five  or  six  thousand,  but  very  weak  and  miser viceahle ) 
the  troops  are  all  scattered,  and  the  commanders  very  poor 
rogues',  upon  my  reputation  and  credit,  and  as  I hope  to  live. 

Is^  Sold.  Shall  I set  down  your  answer  so? 

Del.  Do.  I ’ll  take  my  sacrament'  on ’t,  how  and  which 
way  you  will. 

Count  R.  All ’s  one  to  him.  What  a past-saving  slave  is  this ! 

Is/;  Capt.  D.  You  are  deceived',  my  lord;  this  is  Monsieur 
Delgradoi'  the  gallant  militarist^  (that  was  his  own  phrase^^') 
that  had  the  whole  theory  of  war  in  the  knot  of  his  scarf, 
and  the  practice  in  the  sheath  of  his  dagger. 

2d  Capt.  D.  I will  never  trust  a man  again,  for  keeping 
his  sword  clean';  nor  believe  he  can  have  every  thing  in  him 
by  wearing  his  apparel  neatly. 

Is^  Sold.  Well,  that  ^ s'"  set  down'. 

Del.  Five  or  six  thousand  horse,  I said — I will  say  true 
--or  thereabouts : set  down — for  I ’ll  speak  truth. 

Count  R.  He  is  very  near  the  truiF  in  this. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  No  thanks  to  Mm,  though. 

Del.  Poor  rogues',  I pray  you,  say. 

1st  Sold.  Well,  that^s"'  set  down. 

Del.  I humbly  thank  you,  sir : a truth ’s  a truth ; the 
rogues  are  marvelously  poor. 

1st  Sold.  Demand  of  him^  of  what  strength  they  are  afoot. 
What  say  you  to  that? 

Del.  By  my  troth,  sir,  if  I were  to  live  but  this  present 
hour,  I will  tell  true.  Let  me  see';  Spurio',  a hundred  and 
fifty';  Sebastian',  so  many';  Corambus',  so  many';  Cosmo', 
Lodovick',  and  Glrati',  two  hundred  and  fifty  each';  mine 
own  company',  Lammond',  Bentii',  two  hundred  and  fifty 
each' ; so  that  the  muster-file,  rotten  and  sound,  upon  my 
life,  amounts  not  to  fifteen  thousand  full;  half  of  which 


192 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


dare  not  shake  the  snow  from  off  their  cassocks,  lest  they 
shake  themselves"  to  pieces. 

Count  R.  What  shall  be  done'  to  him? 

1st  Capt.  D.  Nothing,  but  let  him  have  thanks.  Demand 
of  him  my  character,  and  what  credit  I have  with  the 
Duke. 

Is^  Sold.  Well,  that's'"  set  down.  [Reading  from  a note.^ 
You  shall  demand  of  him.^  whether  one  Captain  Dumain'"  he 
in  the  camp:  what  his  reputation  is  with  the  Duke'".,  what  his 
valor.,  honesty.,  expertness  in  wars'" ; or  whether  he  thinks  it 
were  possible^  with  well-iveighed  sums  of  gold.,  to  corrupt  him 
to  a revolt.  What  say  you  to  tills'"?  What  do  you  know'  of  it? 

Del.  I beseech  you  let  me  answer  to  the  particulars.  De- 
mand them  singly. 

Is^  Sold.  Do  you  know?  this  Captain  Dumain  ? 

Del.  I know'  him.  He  was  a butcher’s  apprentice  in 
Paris,  from  whence  he  was  whipped  for  some  paltry  theft. 

[Dumain  lifts  up  his  hand  to  strike  him. 

Count  R.  Nay',  by  your  leave,  hold  your  hands;  though 
I know,  his  brains  are  forfeit  to  the  next  tile  that  falls. 

Is^  Sold.  Well',  is  this  captain  in  the  Duke’s  camp? 

Del.  Upon  my  knowledge  he  is',  and  a mean,  dirty  villain, 
Capt.  D.  [To  Count  i?.]  Nay',  look  not  so  upon  me' ; 
we  shall  hear  of  your  lordship'"  anon. 

Is^  Sold.  What  is  his  reputation  with  the  Duke? 

Del.  The  Duke  knows  him  for  no  other  but  a poor  officer 
of  mine';  and  writ  to  me  this  other  day,  to  turn  him  out 
o’ the  band.  I think  I have  his  letter  in  my  pocket. 

Is^  SoM.  Marry,  we  ’ll  search. 

Del.  In  good  sadness,  I do  not  know':  either  it  is  there', 
or  it  is  upon  file',  with  the  Duke’s  other  letters,  in  my  tent. 

Is^  Sold.  Here  ’tis';  here’s  a paper;  shall  I read  it  you? 

Del.  I do  not  know',  if  it  be  it,  or  no. 

Count  R.  Our  interpreter  does  it  well. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  Excellently. 

1st  Sold.  [Reads.~\  The  count ’s  a fool  and  full  of  gold. 

Del.  That  ’s'  not  the  Duke’s  letter,  sir ; that  is  a notice  to 
a certain  person  to  take  heed  of  one  Count  Rosencrantz" .,  a 
foolish,  idle  boy';  for  all  that,  very  knavish.  Pray  you, 
put  it  up'  again. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


193 


\st  Sold.  Nay,  I ’ll  read^  it  first,  by  your  favor. 

[^Reading.']  When  he  swears  oaths,  bid  him  drop  gold,  and  take^  it; 

After  he  scores,  he  never  pays^  the  score  : ^ 

Zalf  won  is  match  well  made^ ; match,  and  well  make'  it. 

He  ne’er  pays  after'^  debts,  take  it  before. 

For  count  of  this,  the  count’s  a fooF,  I know^  it, 

Who  pays  before,  but  not  when  he  does  owe^  it. 

Count  R.  He  shall  be  whipped  through  the  army,  with 
these  rhymes  on  his  forehead. 

2cZ  Capt.  D.  This  is  your  devoted  friendf  the  learned  lin^ 
quist.,  and  the  gallant  soldier. 

Count  R.  I could  endure  any  thing  before  but  a and 
now  he ’s  a cat  to  me. 

Is^  Sold.  I perceive,  sir,  by  the  general’s  looks,  we  shall 
be  fain  to  hang'  you. 

Del.  My  life\  in  any^  case : not  that  I am  afraid  to  die ; 
but  that  my  offenses  being  many,  I would  repent  out  the 
remainder  of  my  nature.  Let  me  live'".,  sir,  in  a dungeort.^ 
in  the  stockt.,  or  anywhere,  so  I may  live. 

Sold.  We  ’ll  see  what  may  be  done,  so  you  confess 
freely;  therefore,  once  more  to  this  Captain  Dumain.  You 
have  answered  to  his  reputation  with  the  Duke',  and  to  his 
valor.  What,  his  honesty? 

Del.  He  will  steal,  sir,  an  egg  out  of  a cloister.  He  pre- 
tends not  to  keep  oaths;  but  in  breaking  them  is  stronger 
than  Hercules.  He  will  Zic,  sir,  with  such  volubility',  that 
you  would  think  truth  were  a fool';  drunkenness  is  his  best 
virtue''.  I have  but  little  more  to  say,  sir,  of  his  honesty : 
he  has  every  thing'^  that  an  honest  man  should  not  have ; what 
an*  honest  man  should'  have,  he  has  nothing'". 

Count  R.  Hang  him.  He  is  more  and  more  a cat. 

Is^  Sold.  His  qualities  being  at  this  poor  price,  I need 
not  ask  you  if  gold  will  corrupt  him  to  revolt. 

Del.  Sir,  for  the  fourth  part  of  a French  crown,  he  will 
sell  the  fee-simple  of  his  salvation,  the  inheritance  of  it,  and 
cut  the  entail  from  all  remainder. 

Sold.  What’s  his  the  Captain  Dumain? 

2d,  Copt.  D.  Why  does  he  ask  of 

\st  Sold.  What ’s  he  f 


194 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Del.  E’en  a crow  of  the  same  nest'';  not  altogether  so 
great  as  the  other  in  goodness,  but  greater  a great  deal  in 
evil.  He  excels  his  brother  for  a coward,  yet  his  brother  is 
reputed  one  of  the  best  that  is : in  a retreat,  he  outruns  a 
lackey;  marry,  in  coming  on  he  has  the  cramp. 

Sold.  If  your  life  is  saved,  will  you  undertake  to  be- 
tray your  friends? 

Del.  Ay,  the  captain  of  their  horse.  Count  Rosencrantz, 
and  air  of  them. 

Sold.  I ’ll  whisper  with  the  general  and  know  his 
pleasure. 

Del.  I ’ll  no  more  drumming' ; a plague^  of  all  drums. 
Only  to  seem  to  deserve  well,  and  to  get  the  good  opinion  of 
that  foolish  young  boy,  the  count,  have  I run  into  this  dan- 
ger. Yet  who  w^ould  have  suspected  an  ambush  where  I was 
taken  ? \^Aside. 

1st  Sold.  There  is  no  remedy,  sir',  but  you  must  die\ 
The  general  says,  gou\  that  have  so  traitorously  discovered 
the  secrets  of  your  army,  and  made  such  villainous  reports  of 
men  in  high  estimation',  can  serve  the  world  for  no  honest  use ; 
therefore,  you  must  die.  Come,  headsman,  off  with  his  head. 

Del.  0 sir,  let  me  live',  or  let  me  see'  my  death! 

Sold.  That  you  shall',  and  take  your  leave  of  all  your 
friends.  [ JJnmuffling  him. 

So',  look  about'  you;  know* you  any  here'? 

Count  R.  Good  morrow',  noble  captain. 

2d  Capt.  D.  God  bless'  you,  Captain  Helgrado. 

Is^  Capt.  D.  God  save'  you,  noble  captain. 

2d  Capt.  D.  What  greeting  will  you  to  my  lord  Lafeu'? 
I ’m  for  France. 

Capt.  D.  Good  captain,  wul)  you  give  me  a copy  of  your 
sonnet?  If  I were  not  a very  coward,  I ’d  compel  it  of  you; 
but  fare  you  well.  \_Exeunt  Count  i?.,  Capt.  D.  and  brother. 

1st  Sold.  You  are  undone,  captain;  ail  but  your  scarf, 
that^  has  a knot  on ’t  yet. 

Del.  Who  can  not  be  crushed  with  a plot? 

Is^  Sold.  I ’m  for  France,  too' : farewell',  we  shall  speak 
of  you  there.  \^ExiU 

Del.  Yet  I am  thankful.  If  my  heart  were  great^ 

'T  would  bursti"  at  this.  Captain'  I’ll  be  no  more'; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


195 


But  I will  eat",  and  drink',  and  sleep  as  soft' 

As  captain  shall;  simply  the  thing  I am 

Shall  make  me  live.  Who  knows  himself  a braggart, 

Let  him  fear  this. 

Bust',  sword' ! cool',  blushes' ! and,  Belgrade',  live ! 

Safest  in  shame!  being  fooled,  by  foolery  thrive'! 

There ’s  place  and  means  for  every  man  alive'.  \_ExiL 


LXVIII.— A PASSAGE  IN  HUMAN  LIFE. 

1.  In  my  daily  walks  into  the  country,  I was  accustomed 
to  pass  a certain  cottage.  It  had  nothing  particularly  pic 
turesque  about  it.  It  had  its  little  garden,  and  its  vine 
spreading  over  its  front;  but,  beyond  these,  it  possessed  no 
feature  likely  to  fix  it  in  the  mind  of  the  poet  or  novel-writer, 
and  which  might  induce  him  to  people  it  with  creatures  of  his 
own  fancy.  In  fact,  it  appeared  to  be  inhabited  by  persons 
as  little  extraordinary  as  itself.  A “good  man  of  the  house’' 
it  might  possess, — but  he  was  never  visible.  The  only  in- 
mates I ever  saw,  were  a young  woman,  and  another  female, 
in  the  wane  of  life,  no  doubt  the  mother. 

2.  The  damsel  was  a comely,  fresh,  mild-looking  cottage 
girl,  always  seated  in  one  spot,  near  the  window,  intent  on 
her  needle.  The  old  dame  was  as  regularly  busied,  to  and 
fro,  in  household  aifairs.  She  appeared  one  of  those  good 
housewives,  who  never  dream  of  rest,  except  when  in  sleep. 
The  cottage  stood  so  near  the  road,  that  the  fire  at  the  further 
end  of  the  room,  showed  you,  without  your  being  rudely  in- 
quisitive, the  whole  interior  in  a single  moment  of  passing. 
A clean  hearth  and  a cheerful  fire,  shining  upon  homely  but 
neat  and  orderly  furniture,  spoke  of  comfort : but  whether 
the  old  dame  enjoyed,  or  merely  diffused  that  comfort,  was  a 
problem. 

3.  I passed  the  house  many  successive  days.  It  was  always 
alike, — the  fire  snining  brightly  and  peacefully, — the  girl 
seated  at  her  post  by  the  window, — the  housewife  going  to 
and  fro,  catering  and  contriving,  dusting  and  managing. 
One  morning  as  I went  by,  there  was  a change.  The  dame 


196 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


was  seated  near  her  daughter,  her  arms  laid  upon  the  table, 
and  her  head  reclined  upon  her  arms.  I was  sure  that  it  was 
sickness  which  had  compelled  her  to  that  action  of  repose ; 
nothing  less  could  have  done  it.  I felt  that  I knew  exactly 
the  poor  woman's  feelings.  She  had  felt  a weariness  stealing 
upon  her ; she  had  wondered  at  it,  and  struggled  against  it, 
and  borne  up,  hoping  it  would  pass  by ; till,  loth  as  she  was 
to  yield,  it  had  forced  submission. 

4.  The  next  day,  when  I passed,  the  room  appeared  as 
usual ; the  fire  burning  pleasantly,  the  girl  at  her  needle,  but 
her  mother  was  not  to  be  seen ; and,  glancing  my  eye  upward, 
I perceived  the  blind  close  drawn,  in  the  window  above.  It 
is  so,  said  I to  myself,  disease  is  in  progress.  Perhaps  it 
occasions  no  gloomy  fear  of  consequences,  no  extreme  con- 
cern : and  yet,  who  knows  how  it  may  end  ? It  is  thus,  that 
begin  those  changes  that  draw  out  the  central  bolt  that  holds 
families  together;  which  steal  away  our  fire-side  faces,  and 
lay  waste  our  affections. 

5.  I passed  by,  day  after  day.  The  scene  was  the  same; 
the  fire  burning,  the  hearth  beaming  clear  and  beautiful;  but 
the  mother  was  not  to  be  seen ; the  blind  was  still  drawn 
above.  At  length,  I missed  the  girl,  and  in  her  place  ap- 
peared another  woman,  bearing  considerable  resemblance  to 
the  mother,  but  of  a more  quiet  habit.  It  was  easy  to  inter- 
pret this  change.  Disease  had  assumed  an  alarming  aspect; 
the  daughter  was  occupied  in  intense  watching  and  caring 
for  the  suftering  mother,  and  the  good  woman’s  sister  had 
been  summoned  to  her  side,  perhaps  from  a distant  spot,  and, 
perhaps,  from  her  family  cares,  which  no  less  important  an 
event  could  have  induced  her  to  elude. 

G.  Thus  appearances  continued  some  days.  There  was 
silence  around  the  house,  and  an  air  of  neglect  within  it, 
till,  one  morning,  I beheld  the  blind  drawn,  in  the  room 
below,  and  the  window  thrown  open  above.  The  scene  was 
over  ; the  mother  was  removed  from  her  family,  and  one  of 
those  great  changes  effetjted  in  human  life,  which  com- 
mence with  so  little  observation,  but  leave  behind  them 
such  lasting  effects. 


FCLECTIO  SERIES. 


197 


LXIX.— THANATOPSIS. 

From  Bryant. 

Thanatopsis  is  composed  of  two  Greek  words,  thanatos  meaning  death, 
and  opsis  a view.  The  word,  therefore,  signifies  a view  of  death,  or  Re- 
flections on  Death. 

1.  To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A various  language ; for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a voice  of  gladness,  and  a smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware. 

2.  When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall. 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart; — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature’s  teachings,  while  from  all  around, 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air, 

Comes  a still  voice: 

3.  A"et  a few  days,  and  thee, 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course;  nor  yet,  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many  tears. 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.  Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements. 

To  be  a brother  to  the  insensible  rock. 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.  The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mold, 

4.  Yet  not  to  thy  eternal  resting-place 

Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.  Thou  shait  lie  down 

17 


198 


NEW  SIXTH  READEK. 


WitK  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  the  wise,  the  good. 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past. 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulcher. 


5.  ‘ The  hills. 

Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun;  the  vales. 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 

The  venerable  woods;  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round  all- 

Old  ocean’s  gray  and  melancholy  waste, 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.  The  golden  sun. 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven. 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death. 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages. 


6.  All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce. 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 

Save  his  own  dashings — ^yet — the  dead  are  there; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep:  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

7.  So  shalt  thou  rest;  and  what  if  thou  shalt  fall 
Unnoticed  by  the  living;  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure?  All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.  The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  leave  ' 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.  As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glides  away,  the  sons  of  men. 

The  youth  in  life’s  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid. 

The  bowed  with  age,  the  infant  in  the  smiles 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off*, — 

Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side. 

By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


199 


8.  So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 

Thou  ^o  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night. 

Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave. 

Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


LXX.— THE  DEPARTED. 

From  Park  Benjamin. 

1.  The  aeparted!  the  departed! 

They  visit  us  in  dreams. 

And  they  glide  above  our  memories 
Like  shadows  over  streams; 

But  where  the  cheerful  lights  of  home 
In  constant  luster  burn, 

The  departed,  the  departed. 

Can  never  more  return  I 

2.  The  good,  the  brave,  the  beautiful. 

How  dreamless  is  their  sleep. 

Where  rolls  the  dirge-like  music 
Of  the  ever-tossing  deep! 

Or  where  the  surging  night-winds 
Pale  winter’s  robes  have  spread 
Above  the  narrow  palaces, 

In  the  cities  of  the  dead! 

3.  I look  around,  and  feel  the  awe 

Of  one  who  walks  alone,  , 

Among  the  wrecks  of  former  days, 

In  mournful  ruin  strown ; 

I start  to  hear  the  stirring  sounds  ' 
Among  the  cypress-trees. 

For  the  voice  of  the  departed 
Is  borne  upon  the  breeze. 

4.  That  solemn  voice ! it  mingles  with 

Each  free  and  careless  strain; 

I scarce  can  think  earth’s  minstrelsy 
Will  cheer  my  heart  again. 


200 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


The  melody  of  summer  waves, 

The  thrilling  notes  of  birds, 

Can  never  be  so  dear  to  me, 

As  their  remembered  words. 

5.  I sometimes  dream  their  pleasant  smiles 
Still  on  me  sweetly  fall. 

Their  tones  of  love  I faintly  hear 
My  name  in  sadness  call. 

1 know  that  they  are  happy, 

With  their  angel-plumage  on, 

But  my  heart  is  very  desolate. 

To  think  that  they  are  gone. 


LXXI.— ELIJAH  THE  TISHBITE. 

From  the  Bible. 

1.  And  Ahab  told  Jezebel  all  that  Elijah  had  done,  and 
withal  how  he  had  slain  all  the  prophets  with  the  sword. 
Then  Jezebel  sent  a messenger  unto  Elijah,  saying,  So  let 
the  gods  do  to  me\  and  more  also,  if  I make  not  thy'  life  as 
the  life  of  one  of  theivb  by  to-morrow  about  this  time.  And 
when  he  saw  that',  he  arose  and  went  for  his  Zi/e',  and  came 
and  sat  down  under  a juniper-tree',  and  he  requested  for 
himself  that  he  might  die,  and  said.  It  is  enough ; now,  0 
Lord',  take  away  my  life' ; for  I am  not  better  than  my 
fathers. 

2.  And  as  he  lay  and  slept  under  a juniper-tree',  behold, 
then  an  angel'  touched  him,  and  said  unto  him.  Arise,  and 
eat!  And  he  looked,  and  behold,  there  was  a cake  baked  on 
the  coals,  and  a cruse  of  water  at  his  head.  And  he  did  eat 
and  drink,  and  laid  him  down'  again.  And  the  angel  of 
the  Lord  came  again  the  second^  time,  and  touched  him,  and 
said.  Arise  and  eat;  because  the  journey  is  too  great'  for 
thee.  And  he  arose,  and  did  eat  and  drink',  and  went  in  the 
strength  of  that  meat,  forty  days  and  forty  nights',  unto 
Horeb,  the  mount  of  Grod. 

3.  And  he  came  thither  unto  a cave,  and  lodged'  there  ; 
and,  behold,  the  word  of  the  Lord  came  to  him,  and  he  said 
unto  him,  What  doest  thou  here^  Elijah'?  And  he  said,  I 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


201 


have  been  very  jealous  for  the  Lord  God  of  hosts  ; for  the 
children  of  Israel  have  forsaken  thy  covenant,  thrown  down 
thine  altars,  and  slain  thy  prophets  with  the  sword':  and  I, 
even  P only,  am  left';  and  they  seek  mi/  life,  to  take  it 
away. 

4.  And  he  said.  Go  forth  and  stand  upon  the  mount  before 
the  Lord.  And,  behold,  the  Lord  passed  by',  and  a great 
and  strong  wind  rent  the  mountains,  and  brake  in  pieces  the 
rocks,  before  the  Lord' ; but  the  Lord  was  not  in  the  wind' : 
and  after  the  wind  an  earthquake':  but  the  Lord  was  not  in 
the  earthquake':  and  after  the  earthquake,  a fire':  but  the 
Lord  was  not  in  the  fire':  and  after  the  fire,  a still,  small 
voice.  And  it  was  so,  when  Elijah  heard  it,  that  he  wrapped 
his  face  in  his  mantle',  and  went  out,  and  stood  in  the  enter- 
ing in  of  the  cave. 

5.  And,  behold,  there  came  a voice  unto  him,  and  said. 
What  doest  thou  /icre',  Elijah'?  And  he  said,  I have  been 
very  jealous  for  the  Lord  God  of  hosts';  because  the  children 
of  Israel  have  forsaken  thy  covenant,  thrown  down  thine 
altars,  and  slain  thy  prophets  with  the  sword';  and  I',  even 
/'  only,  am  left';  and  they  seek  my  life  to  take  it  away. 
And  the  Lord  said  unto  him.  Go',  return  on  thy  way  to  the 
wilderness  of  Damascus' : and  when  thou  comest,  anoint 
Hazael  to  be  king  over  Syria';  and  Jehu  the  son  of  Nim- 
shi  shalt  thou  anoint  to  be  king  over  Israel';  and  Elisha 
shalt  thou  anoint  to  be  prophet  in  thy  room.  And  it  shall 
come  to  pass,  that  him  that  escapeth  the  sword  of  Hazael, 
shall  Jehu  slay;  and  him  that  escapeth  the  sword  of  Jehu, 
shall  Elisha  slay.  Yet  I have  left  me  seven  thousand  in 
Israel,  all  the  knees  which  have  not  bowed  unto  Baal,  and 
every  mouth  which  hath  not  kissed'  him.  So,  he  departed 
thence. 


202 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


LXXII.— ELIJAH  AT  MOUNT  HOREB. 

From  Krummacher. 

Krummacher  was  a German  divine,  who  wrote  several  very  interest- 
ing and  instructive  works,  among  which  are  ^‘Elisha  the  Tishbite,^^ 
Parables,’*  etc. 

1.  “GrO  forth'/’  it  had  been  said  to  Elijah',  “and  stand 
upon  the  mount  before  the  Lord.”  The  prophet  hears  it,  and 
leaves  his  cave';  and  no  sooner  is  he  gone  forth,  than  signs 
occur  which  announce  to  him  the  approach  of  the  Almighty. 
The  sacred  historian  here,  indeed,  depicts  in  simple  language, 
a most  sublime  scene. 

2.  The  first  sign  was  a tremendous  wind'.  Just  be- 
fore, probably,  the  deepest  silence  had  prevailed  throughout 
this  dreary  wilderness.  The  mountain  tempest  breaks  forth, 
and  the  bursting  rocks  thunder,  as  if  the  four  winds'  having 
been  confined  there,  had  in  an  instant  broken  from  their 
prisons  to  fight'  together.  The  clouds  are  driven  about  in  the 
sky,  like  squadrons  of  combatants  rushing  to  the  conflict.  The 
sandy  desert  is  like  a raging  sea,  tossing  its  curling  billows  to 
the  sky.  Sinai  is  agitated,  as  if  the  terrors  of  the  law-giving 
were  renewed  around  it.  The  prophet  feels  the  majesty  of 
Jehovah;  it  is  awful  and  appalling.  It  is  not  a feeling  of 
peace,  and  of  the  Lord’s  blissful  nearness,  which  possesses 
Elijah’s  soul  in  this  tremendous  scene';  it  is  rather  a feeling 
of  distressing  distance';  “a  strong  iDin(P  went  before  the 
Lord,  but  the  Lord  was  not  in  the  wind.” 

3.  The  terrors  of  an  earthquake'  next  ensue.  The  very 
foundations  of  the  hills  shake  and  are  removed.  The  mount- 
ains and  the  rocks  which  were  rent  by  the  mighty  wind, 
threaten  now  to  fall  upon  one  another.  Hills  sink  down,  and 
valleys  rise;  chasms  yawn,  and  horrible  depths  unfold,  as  if 
the  earth  were  removed  out  of  his  place.  The  prophet,  sur- 
rounded by  the  ruins  of  nature,  feels  still  more  of  that  divine 
majesty,  which  “ looketh  upon  the  earth,  and  it  trembleth.” 
But  he  still  remains  without  any  gracious  communication  of 
Jehovah  in  the  inner  man.  The  earthquake  was  only  the 
second  herald  of  the  Deity.  It  went  before  rhe  Lord,  “ but 
the  Lord  was  not  in  the  earthquake^ 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


203 


4.  When  this  had  ceased,  an  awful  fire"  passed  by.  As 
the  winds  had  done  before^  so  now  the  flames''  come  upon 
him  from  every  side,  and  the  deepest  shades  of  night  are 
turned  into  the  light  of  day.  Elijah,  lost  in  adoring  as- 
tonishment', beholds  the  awfully  sublime  spectacle',  and  the 
inmost  sensation  of  his  heart  must  have  been  that  of  sur- 
prise and  dread;  but  he  enjoys,  as  yet,  no  delightful  sensa- 
tion of  the  divine  presence';  “the  Lord  was  not  in  the  fire.'' 

5.  The  fire  disappears',  and  tranquillity,  like  the  stillness 
of  the  sanctuary,  spreads  gradually  over  all  nature',  and  it 
seems  as  if  every  hill  and  dale',  yea,  the  whole  earth  and 
skies',  lay  in  silent  homage  at  the  footstool  of  eternal  Maj- 
esty. The  very  mountains  seemed  to  worship';  the  whole 
scene  is  hushed  to  profound  peace';  and  now,  he  hears  a 
“still,  small  voice.”  “And  it  was  so  when  Elijah  heard  it 
he  wrapt  his  face  in  his  mantle,”  in  token  of  reverential  awe 
and  adoring  wonder,  and  went  forth,  “and  s^ood  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  cave.” 


TO  TEACHERS. 

Rhetorical  notation  will  now  be  omitted,  as  the  learner  may  be 
supposed  to  have  become  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the  subject  to 
judge  for  himself,  with  such  occasional  aid  as  the  teacher  may  think 
proper  to  give. 


204 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


LXXIIL— EARTH  AND  HEAVEN. 

Words  marked  thus  in  the  subsequent  lessons,  should  be  spelled  and 
defined  by  the  pupil  j as,  +summoned  ’’  and  “’^couch  in  the  first  par- 
agraph of  this  lesson.  The  pupil  may  be  required  to  write  them  upon  a 
blackboard  or  slate.  If  resort  to  a dictionary  is  needed,  Webster* s should 
be  referred  to  as  standard  authority  in  spelling  and  definition. 

EARTH. 

1.  There  is  grief,  there  is  grief,  there  is  wringing  of  hands. 

And  weeping  and  calling  for  aid ; 

For  Sorrow  hath  '’'summoned  her  group,  and  it  stands 
Found  the  "^couch  where  the  "^sufferer  is  laid ; 

And  lips  are  all  pallid,  and  cheeks  are  all  cold. 

And  tears  from  the  heart-springs  are  shed; 

Yet  who  that  looks  on,  the  sweet  saint  to  behold, 

But  would  gladly  lie  down  in  her  stead. 

2.  There  is  g>def,  there  is  grief,  there  is  '^'anguish  and  strife. 

And  the  sufferer  is  striving  for  breath; 

For  the  spirit  will  cling,  oh,  how  fondly,  to  life, 

And  stern  is  the  struggle  with  death! 

But  the  terrible  '^conflict  grows  deadlier  still, 

Till  the  last  fatal  symptoms  have  birth; 

And  the  eyeball  is  glazed,  and  the  heart-blood  is  chill; 
And  this  is  the  portion  of  earth! 

HEAVEN. 

3.  There  is  bliss,  there  is  bliss,  in  the  regions  above, 

They  have  opened  the  gates  of  the  sky; 

A spirit  has  soared  to  those  mansions  of  love, 

And  seeks  for  '•'admittance  on  high ; 

And  friends  long  divided  are  hasting  to  greet. 

In  a land  where  no  sorrow  may  come. 

And  the  '•'seraphs  are  eager  a sister  to  meet, 

And  to  welcome  the  child  to  its  home. 

4.  There  is  bliss,  there  is  bliss,  at  the  foot  of  the  throne; 

See  the  spirit  all  '•'purified  bend  ; 

And  it  beams  with  delight,  since  it  gazes  alone, 

On  the  face  of  a father,  a friend! 

Then  it  joins  in  the  '•'anthems  forever  that  rise. 

And  its  '•'frailty  or  folly  forgiven. 

It  is  dead  to  the  earth,  and  new-born  to  the  skies, 

And  this  is  the  portion  of  Heaven  ! 


ECLECTIC  SERIES- 


205 


LXXIV.—THE  SLEEPERS. 

1.  They  are  sleeping!  Who  are  sleeping? 

Children  wearied  with  their  play  ; 

For  the  stars  of  night  are  peeping, 

And  the  sun  hath  sunk  away; 

As  the  dew  upon  the  '^blossoms 
Bow  them  on  their  slender  stem, 

Lo,  as  light  as  their  own  bosoms. 

Balmy  sleep  hath  '^'conquered  them. 

2.  They  are  sleeping!  Who  are  sleeping? 

Mortals  '^'compassed  round  with  woe. 
Eyelids  wearing  out  with  weeping. 

Close  for  very  weakness  now: 

And  that  short  relief  from  sorrow, 

Harassed  nature  shall  "^sustain 
Till  they  wake  again  to-morrow, 

Strengthened  to  '^'contend  with  pain  1 

3 They  are  sleeping!  Who  are  sleeping? 
Captives  in  their  gloomy  cells; 

Yet,  sweet  dreams  are  o’er  them  creeping. 
With  their  many-colored  spells; 

All  they  love — again  they  clasp  them; 

Feel  again  their  long  lost  joys ; 

But  the  haste  with  which  they  grasp  them^ 
Every  fairy  form  destroys. 

4.  They  are  sleeping!  Who  are  sleeping? 

Misers  by  their  "^hoarded  gold; 

And  in  fancy  now  are  heaping 
Gems  and  pearls  of  price  untold. 

Golden  chains  their  limbs  ^encumber, 
Diamonds  seem  before  them  strown; 

But  they  waken  from  their  slumber. 

And  the  splendid  dream  is  flown. 

5.  They  are  sleeping!  Who  are  sleeping? 

Pause  a moment,  softly  tread ; 

Anxious  friends  are  fondly  keeping 
Vigils  by  the  sleeper’s  bed! 


206 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Other  hopes  have  all  forsaken ; 

One  remains;  that  slumber  deep 
Break  not^  lest  the  slumberer  waken 
From  that  sweet,  that  saving  sleep. 

6.  They  are  sleeping!  Who  are  sleeping? 
Thousands  who  have  passed  away 
From  a world  of  woe  and  weeping 
To  the  regions  of  '‘'decay ! 

Safe  they  rest,  the  green  turf  under; 

Sighing  breeze,  or  music’s  breath, 
Winter’s  wind,  or  summer’s  thunder 
Can  not  break  the  sleep  of  death  I 


LXXV.— THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER. 

From  Jane  Taylor. 

1.  In  a remote  period  of '‘'antiquity,  when  the  '‘'supernatural 
and  the  marvelous  obtained  a readier  credence  than  now,  it 
was  fabled  that  a stranger  of  extraordinary  appearance  was 
observed  passing  the  streets  of  one  of  the  magnificent  cities 
of  the  east,  remarking,  with  an  eye  of  intelligent  curiosity, 
every  surrounding  object.  Several  individuals  gathering 
around  him,  questioned  him  concerning  his  country  and  his 
business;  but  they  presently  perceived  that  he  was  unac- 
quainted with  their  language,  and  he  soon  discovered  himself 
to  be  equally  ignorant  of  the  most  common  usages  of  society. 
At  the  same  time,  the  dignity  and  intelligence  of  his  air  and 
demeanor,  forbade  the  idea  of  his  being  either  a '‘'barbarian 
or  a '‘'lunatic. 

2.  When,  at  length,  he  understood  by  their  signs,  that  tney 
wished  to  be  informed  whence  he  came,  he  pointed  with  great 
significance  to  the  sky  ^ upon  which,  the  crowd,  concluding 
him  to  be  one  of  their  deities,  were  proceeding  to  pay  him 
divine  honors;  but  he  no  sooner  comprehended  their  design, 
than  he  rejected  it  with  horror;  and,  bending  his  knees  and 
raising  his  hands  toward  heaven,  in  the  attitude  of  prayer, 
gave  them  to  understand  that  he  also  was  a worshiper  of 
the  powers  above.  After  a time,  it  is  said,  the  mysterious 
stranger  accepted  the  '‘'hos{)italities  of  one  of  the  nobles  of 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


207 


the  city;  under  whose  roof  he  applied  himself  with  great 
diligence  to  the  '•'acquirement  of  the  language,  in  which  he 
made  such  surprising  '•'proficiency,  that  in  a few  days,  he  was 
able  to  hold  intelligent  intercourse  with  those  around  him. 

3.  The  noble  host  now  resolved  to  take  an  early  oppor- 
tunity of  satisfying  his  curiosity  respecting  the  country  and 
quality  of  his  guest;  and  upon  his  expressing  his  desire,  the 
stranger  assured  him,  that  he  would  answer  his  inquiries  that 
evening,  after  sunset.  Accordingly,  as  night  approached,  he 
led  him  forth  upon  the  '•'balconies  of  the  palace,  which  over- 
looked the  wealthy  and  populous  city.  Innumerable  lights 
from  its  busy  streets  and  splendid  palaces,  were  now  reflected 
in  the  dark  bosom  of  its  noble  river ; where  stately  ves- 
sels, laden  with  rich  '•'merchandise  from  all  parts  of  the 
known  world,  lay  anchored  in  the  port.  This  was  a city  in 
which  the  voice  of  the  harp  and  the  viol,  and  the  sound  of 
the  millstone  were  continually  heard ; and  '•'craftsmen  of  all 
kinds  of  craft  were  there ; and  the  light  of  a candle  was  seen 
in  every  dwelling  ; and  the  voice  of  the  bridegroom  and  the 
voice  of  the  bride  were  heard  there. 

4.  The  stranger  mused  awhile  upon  the  glittering  scene; 
and  listened  to  the  confused  murmur  of  mingling  sounds. 
Then  suddenly  raising  his  eyes  to  the  starry  '•'firmament,  he 
fixed  them  with  an  expressive  gaze,  on  the  beautiful  evening 
star,  which  was  just  sinking  behind  a dark  grove,  that  sur- 
rounded one  of  the  principal  temples  of  the  city.  “ Marvel 
not,”  said  he  to  his  host,  “that  I am  wont  to  gaze  with  fond 
affection  on  yon  silvery  star.  That  was  my  home ; yes,  I was 
lately  an  inhabitant  of  that  tranquil  planet;  from  whence  a 
vain  curiosity  has  tempted  me  to  wander. 

5.  “ Often  had  I beheld,  with  wondering  admiration,  this 
brilliant  world  of  yours,  even  one  of  the  brightest  gems  of 
our  firmament,  and  the  ardent  desire  I had  long  felt  to  know 
something  of  its  condition,  was  at  length  unexpectedly 
gratified.  I received  permission  and  power  from  above  to 
'•'traverse  the  mighty  void,  and  to  direct  my  course  to  this 
distant  sphere.  To  that  permission,  however,  one  condition 
was  annexed,  to  which  my  eagerness  for  the  enterprise 
induced  me  hastily  to  consent,  namely,  that  I must  thence- 
forth remain  an  inhabitant  of  this  strange  earth,  and  undergo 


208 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


all  the  ■‘'vicissitudes  to  which  its  natives  are  subject.  Tell  me, 
therefore,  I pray  you,  what  is  the  lot  of  man ; and  explain  to 
me  more  fully  than  I yet  understand,  all  that  I see  and  hear 
around  me.” 

6.  ‘‘  Truly,  sir,”  replied  the  astonished  noble,  “ although 
I am  altogether  unacquainted  with  the  manners  and  customs, 
products  and  '‘'privileges  of  your  country,  yet  methinks,  I 
’.an  not  but  congratulate  you  on  your  arrival  in  our  world  ; 

’specially  since  it  has  been  your  good  fortune  to  alight  on  a 
j^ctrt  of  it,  affording  such  various  sources  of  enjoyment,  ns 
this  our  ■‘'opulent  and  '‘'luxuriant  city.  And  be  assured  it 
will  be  my  pride  and  pleasure  to  introduce  you  to  all  that  is 
most  worthy  the  attention  of  such  a distinguished  foreigner.” 

7.  Our  adventurer,  accordingly,  was  presently  '‘'initiated 
into  those  arts  of  luxury  and  pleasure,  which  were  there  well 
understood.  He  was  introduced  by  his  obliging  friend  to 
their  public  games  and  festivals ; to  their  '‘'theatrical  '‘'diver- 
sions and  ■‘'convivial  assemblies;  and,  in  a short  time,  he 
began  to  feel  some  relish  for  amusements,  the  meaning  of 
which,  at  first,  he  could  scarcely  comprehend.  The  next 
lesson  which  it  became  desirable  to  impart  to  him,  was  the 
necessity  of  acquiring  wealth,  as  the  only  means  of  obtain- 
ing pleasure.  This  fact  was  no  sooner  understood  by  the 
stranger,  than  he  gratefully  accepted  the  offer  of  his  friendly 
host,  to  place  him  in  a situation  in  which  he  might  '‘'amass 
riches.  To  this  object  he  began  to  apply  himself  with  dili- 
gence; and  soon  became,  in  some  measure,  reconciled  to  the 
manners  and  customs  of  our  planet,  strangely  as  they  dif- 
fered from  those  of  his  own. 


LXXVL— THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER— CONCLUDED. 

1.  He  had  been  but  a few  weeks  diligently  engaged  in  his 
new  plans  for  the  acquisition  of  wealth,  when,  walking  in  the 
cool  of  the  day  with  his  friend,  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  appearance  of  a '‘'spacious 
inclosure  near  which  they  passed.  He  inquired  the  use  to 
which  it  was  appropriated.  “It  is,”  replied  the  nobleman. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


209 


“a  place  of  public  interment.”  “I  do  not  understand  you,” 
said  the  stranger.  “It  is  the  place,”  repeated  his  friend, 
“where  we  bury  our  dead.”  “Excuse  me,  sir,”  replied  his 
companion,  with  some  '^'embarrassment,  “I  must  trouble  you 
to  explain  yourself  yet  further.” 

2.  The  nobleman  repeated  the  information  in  still  plainer 
terms.  “ I am  still  at  a loss  to  comprehend  you  perfectly,” 
said  the  stranger,  turning  deadly  pale.  “ This  must  relate  to 
something  of  which  I was  not  only  totally  ignorant  in  my 
own  world,  but  of  which  I have,  as  yet,  had  no  '^intimation 
in  yours.  I pray  you,  therefore,  to  satisfy  my  curiosity;  for 
if  I have  any  clue  to  your  meaning,  this  surely,  is  a matter 
of  more  mighty  concernment,  than  any  to  which  you  have 
hitherto  directed  me.” 

3.  “My  good  friend,”  replied  the  nobleman,  “you  must 
indeed  be  a '^novice  among  us,  if  you  have  yet  to  learn  that 
we  must  all,  sooner  or  later,  submit  to  take  our  place  in  these 
dismal  abodes.  Nor  will  I deny,  that  it  is  one  of  the  least 
desirable  of  the  circumstances  which  '^'appertain  to  our  con- 
dition; for  which  reason  it  is  a matter  rarely  referred  to  in 
polished  society;  and  this  accounts  for  your  being  hitherto 
uninformed  on  the  subject.  But,  truly,  sir,  if  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  place  from  whence  you  came  are  not  liable  to  any 
similar  misfortune,  I advise  you  to  betake  yourself  back 
again  with  all  speed  ; for  be  assured  there  is  no  escape  here, 
nor  could  I guarantee  your  safety  even  for  a single  hour.” 

4.  “Alas!”  replied  the  adventurer,  “I  must  submit  to 
the  conditions  of  my  enterprise,  of  which,  till  now,  I little 
understood  the  import.  But  explain  to  me,  I beseech  you, 
something  more  of  the  nature  and  consequence  of  this  won- 
drous change,  and  tell  me  at  what  period  it  commonly  happens 
to  man.”  While  he  thus  spoke,  his  voice  '^faltered,,  and  his 
whole  frame  shook  violently ; his  countenance  was  as  pale  as 
death.  By  this  time  his  companion,  finding  the  discourse 
becoming  more  serious  than  was  agreeable,  declared  he  must 
refer  him  to  the  priests  for  further  information,  this  subject 
being  very  much  out  of  his  province.  “How  ! ” exclaimed 
the  stranger,  “then  I could  not  have  understood  you.  Do 
the  priests  only  die?  Are  you  not  to  die  also?”  His 
friend,  "^evading  these  questions,  hastily  conducted  his 


210 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


importunate  companion  to  one  of  their  '^'magnificent  temples, 
where  he  gladly  consigned  him  to  the  instructions  of  the 
priesthood. 

5.  The  emotion  which  the  stranger  had  betrayed  when  he 
received  the  first  idea  of  death,  was  yet  slight  in  comparison 
with  that  which  he  experienced  as  soon  as  he  gathered,  from 
r.ie  discourses  of  the  priests,  some  notions  of  immortality, 
i.:id  of  the  '^'altefnative  of  happiness  or  misery  in  a future 
state.  But  this  agony  of  mind  was  exchanged  for  '^'trans- 
port,  when  he  learned  that,  by  the  '^performance  of  certain 
conditions  before  death,  the  state  of  happiness  might  be 
secured.  His  eagerness  to  learn  the  nature  of  these  terms, 
excited  the  surprise  and  even  the  contempt  of  his  sacred 
teachers.  They  advised  .him  to  remain  satisfied,  for  the 
present,  with  the  instructions  he  had  received,  and  defer  the 
remainder  of  the  discussion  till  to-morrow.  “How!”  ex- 
claimed the  novice,  “ say  ye  not  that  death  may  come  at  any 
hour?  May  it  not  come  this  hour?  And  what  if  it  should 
come,  before  I have  performed  these  conditions?  Oh!  with- 
hold not  the  excellent  knowledge  from  me  a single  moment!  ” 

6.  The  priests,  suppressing  a smile  at  his  simplicity,  pro- 
ceeded to  explain  their  '^theology  to  their  attentive  auditor. 
But  who  can  describe  the  '^'ecstasy  of  his  happiness,  w^hen  he 
was  given  to  understand  the  required  conditions  were,  gener- 
ally, of  easy  and  pleasant  performance,  and  the  occasional 
difficulties,  which  might  attend  them,  would  entirely  cease 
with  the  short  term  of  his  earthly  existence.  “ If,  then,  I 
understand  you  rightly,”  said  he  to  his  instructors,  “this 
event  which  you  call  death,  and  which  seems  in  itself 
strangely  terrible,  is  most  desirable  and  '^'blissful.  What  a 
favor  is  this  which  is  granted  to  me,  in  being  sent  to  inhabit 
a planet-in  which  I can  die!” 

7.  The  priests  again  exchanged  smiles  with  each  other ; 
but  their  ridicule  was  wholly  lost  on  the  "^enraptured  stranger. 
When  the  first  '^'transports  of  his  emotion  had  subsided,  he 
began  to  reflect  with  more  uneasiness  on  the  time  he  had 
already  lost  since  his  arrival.  “ Alas ! what  have  I been 
doing?”  exclaimed  he.  “This  gold  which  I have  been  col- 
lecting, tell  me,  reverend  priests,  will  it  avail  me  any  thing 
when  the  thirty  or  forty  years  are  expired,  which  you  say  I 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


21  i 

may  possibly '^sojourn  in  your  planet?”  “Nay,”  replied  the 
priests,  “ but  verily  you  will  find  it  of  excellent  use  so  long  as 
you  remain  in  it.”  “A  very  little  of  it  will  suffice  me,” 
replied  he;  “for  consider  how  soon  this  period  will  be  past. 
What  avails  it  what  my  condition  may  be  for  so  short  a 
season?  I will  betake  myself  from  this  hour,  to  the  grand 
concerns  of  which  you  have  so  charitably  informed  me.” 

8.  Accordingly,  from  that  period,  continues  the  '^'legend, 
the  stranger  devoted  himself  to  the  performance  of  those  con- 
ditions on  which,  he  was  told,  his  future  welfare  depended ; 
but,  in  so  doing,  he  had  an  opposition  to  '^'encounter  wholly 
unexpected,  and  for  which  he  was  at  a loss  even  to  account. 
By  thus  devoting  his  chief  attention  to  his  chief  interests,  he 
excited  the  surprise,  the  contempt,  and  even  the  enmity  of 
most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  city;  and  they  rarely  men- 
tioned him  but  with  a term  of  reproach,  which  has  been 
variously  rendered  in  all  the  modern  languages. 

9.  Nothing  could  equal  the  stranger’s  surprise  at  this  cir- 
cumstance ; as  well  as  that  of  his  fellow-citizens’  appearing, 
generally,  so  extremely  indifferent  as  they  did,  to  their  own 
interest.  That  they  should  have  so  little  prudence  and  fore- 
thought, as  to  provide  only  for  their  '‘'necessities  and  pleasures, 
for  that  short  part  of  their  existence  in  which  they  were  to 
remain  on  this  planet,  he  could  but  consider  as  the  effect  of 
disordered  intellect;  so  that  he  even  returned  their  incivili- 
ties to  himself  with  affectionate  '‘'expostulation,  accompanied 
by  lively  emotions  of  compassion  and  '‘'amazement. 

10.  If  ever  he  was  tempted  for  a moment  to  violate  any  of 
the  conditions  of  his  future  happiness,  he  bewailed  his  own 
madness  with  '‘'agonizing  emotions ; and  to  all  the  invitations 
he  received  from  others  to  do  any  thing  inconsistent  with  his 
real  interest,  he  had  but  one  answer — -“Oh.”  he  would  say, 
“I  am  to  die;  I am  to  die!” 


212 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


LXXVIL— A PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

From  Longfellow. 

1.  Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream! 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  wh  it  they  seem. 

2.  Life  is  real!  Life  is  earnest! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  +goal; 

Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

3.  Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  '^'destined  end  or  way  ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

4.  Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave. 
Still,  like  ■’'muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

5 In  the  world’s  broad  field  of  battle. 

In  the  ■’'bivouac  of  Life, 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle! 

Be  a hero  in  the  strife ! 

6.  Trust  no  Future,  howe’er  pleasant! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  I 
Act — act  in  the  living  Present! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o’erhead. 

7.  Lives  of  great,  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  'tsublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Foot-prints  on  the  sands  of  time. 

8.  Foot-prints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o’er  life’s  solemn  ■’'main, 

A forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

9.  Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing. 

With  a heart  for  any  fate; 

Still  ■’'achieving,  still  pursuing. 

Learn  to  labor  and  .to  wait. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


213 


LXXVIIL— THE  DREAM  OF  CLARENCE. 

From  Shakspeare. 

Clarence,  prisoner  in  the  Tower  of  London. 

Enter  Brakenbury. 

■Bralcenhury.  Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily  to-day? 
Clarence.  0,  I have  passed  a miserable  night. 

So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 

That,  as  I am  a Christian,  faithful  man. 

I would  not  spend  another  such  a night. 

Though  T were  to  buy  a world  of  happy  days, 

So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time. 

Brak.  What  was  your  dream,  my  lord?  I pray  you  tell  me. 
Clar.  Methought  that  T had  broken  from  the  Tower, 

And  was  ^embarked  to  cross  to  Burgundy; 

And,  in  my  company,  my  brother  Gloster; 

Who,  from  my  cabin,  tempted  me  to  walk 

Upon  the  "^hatches;  whence  we  looked  toward  England, 

And  +cited  up  a thousand  heavy  times, 

During  the  wars  of  York  rnd  Lancaster, 

That  had  befallen  us.  As  we  paced  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 

Methought  that  Gloster  stumbled;  and,  in  falling, 

Struck  me,  that  thought  to  stay  him,  overboard. 

Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 

O then,  methought,  what  pain  it  was  to  drown! 

What  dreadful  noise  of  waters  in  mine  ears! 

What  ugly  sights  of  death  within  mine  eyes! 

Methought  I saw  a thousand  "earful  wrecks; 

A thousand  men  that  fishes  gnawed  upon ; 

Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 

'•'Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels. 

All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Some  lay  in  dead  men’s  sculls;  and,  in  those  holes 
Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept, 

As  ’twere  in  scorn  of  eyes,  reflecting  gems, 

That  wooed  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep. 

And  mocked  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scattered  by. 

Brak.  Had  you  such  leisure  in  the  time  of  death, 

To  gaze  upon  these  secrets  of  the  deep? 

Clar.  Methought  I had;  and  often  did  I strive 
To  yield  the  ghost:  but  still  the  '•'envious  flood 
18 


214 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Kept  in  mj  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  seek  the  empty,  vast,  and  wandering  air; 

But  "^smothered  it  within  my  panting  bulk; 

Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brak.  Awaked  you  not  with  this  sore  agony? 

Clar.  O no ; my  dream  was  lengthened  after  life  I 

0,  then  began  the  tempest  of  my  soul ! 

I passed,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood. 

With  that  '^grim  ferry-man  which  poets  write  of, 

Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 

The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul, 

Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick; 

Who  cried  aloud,  “ What  scourge  for  '^perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence'}'^ 

And  so  he  vanished. 

Then  came  wandering  by 
A shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood ; and  he  shrieked  out  aloud : 

'‘^Clarence  is  come!  false^  fleeting^  perjured.  Clarence! 

That  stabbed  me  in  the  field  by  Tewksbury : 

Seize  on  him^  "^'FurieSj  take  him  to  your  torments  I ’ 

With  that,  methought,  a legion  of  foul  fiends 
^'Environed  me,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 
Such  hideous  cries,  that,  with  the  very  noise, 

1,  trembling,  waked,  and,  for  a season  after, 

Could  not  believe  but  that  I was  in  hell ; 

Such  terrible  Umpression  made  my  dream. 

Brak.  No  marvel,  my  lord,  that  it  affrighted  you; 

I am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.  O Brakenbury,  I have  done  those  things, 

That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul. 

For  Edward’s  sake;  and  see  how  he  '^'requites  me! 

O God  I if  my  deep  prayers  can  not  appease  thee. 

But  thou  wilt  be  Avenged  on  my  misdeeds. 

Yet  ^execute  thy  wrath  on  me  alone: 

0,  spare  my  guiltless  wife  and  my  poor  children  I 

I pray  thee,  gentle  keeper,  stay  by  me; 

My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I fain  would  sleep. 

Brak.  I will,  my  lord:  God  give  your  grace  good  rest! 
[Clarence  reposes  himself  on  a chair. 

Sorrow  breaks  seasons  and  reposing  hours, 

Makes  the  night  morning,  and  the  noontide  night. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


215 


LXXIX.— CHOICE  OF  HERCULES. 

From  The  Tatler, 

1.  When  Hercules  was  in  that  part  of  his  youth,  in  which 
it  was  natural  for  him  to  consider  what  course  of  life  he 
ought  to  pursue,  he  one  day  retired  into  a desert,  where  the 
silence  and  the  solitude  of  the  place  very  much  favored  his 
'^'meditations.  As  he  was  musing  on  his  present  condition, 
and  very  much  perplexed  in  himself  on  the  state  of  life 
which  he  should  choose,  he  saw  two  women  of  larger  stature 
than  ordinary,  approaching  him. 

2.  One  of  them  had  a very  noble  air  and  graceful  '^deport- 
ment; her  beauty  was  natural  and  easy,  her  person  clean 
and  unspotted,  her  eyes  cast  toward  the  ground  with  an 
agreeable  '‘'reserve,  her  motion  and  behavior  full  of  modesty, 
and  her  raiment  as  white  as  snow.  The  other  had  a great 
deal  of  health  and  '‘'floridness  in  her  countenance,  which  she 
had  helped  with  an  artificial  white  and  red ; and  she  en- 
deavored to  appear  more  graceful  than  ordinary  in  her  mien, 
by  a mixture  of  affectation  in  all  her  gestures.  She  had  a 
wonderful  confidence  and  '‘'assurance  in  her  looks,  and  all  the 
variety  of  colors  in  her  dress,  that  she  thought  were  the  most 
proper  to  show  her  complexion  to  advantage.  She  cast  her 
eyes  upon  herself,  then  turned  them  on  those  that  were 
present,  to  see  how  they  liked  her,  and  often  looked  on  the 
figure  she  made  in  her  own  shadow.  Upon  her  approach  to 
Hercules,  she  stepped  before  the  other  lady,  who  came  for- 
ward with  a regular  composed  '‘'carriage,  and  running  up  to 
him,  '‘'accosted  him  after  the  following  manner : 

3.  “ My  dear  Hercules,  I find  you  are  very  much  divided 
in  your  thoughts  upon  the  way  of  life  that  you  ought  to 
choose:  be  my  friend,  and  follow  me : I will  lead  you  into  the 
possession  of  pleasure,  and  out  of  the  reach  of  pain,  and 
remove  you  from  all  the  noise  and  disquietude  of  business. 
The  affairs  of  either  war  or  peace  shall  have  no  power  to 
disturb  you.  Your  whole  employment  shall  be  to  make  your 
life  easy,  and  entertain  every  sense  with  its  proper  gratifica- 
tions. '‘'Sumptuous  tables,  beds  of  roses,  clouds  of  perfumes, 
'‘'concerts  of  music  crawds  of  beauties,  are  all  in  readiness  to 


216 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


receive  you.  Come  along  with  me  into  this  region  of  delights, 
this  world  of  pleasure,  and  bid  farewell  forever  to  care,  to 
pain,  to  business.”  Hercules,  hearing  the  lady  talk  after  this 
manner,  desired  to  know  her  name ; to  which  she  answered, 
“ My  friends  and  those  who  are  well  acquainted  with  me,  call 
me  Happiness : but  my  enemies  and  those  who  would  injure 
my  "^reputation,  ha\  e given  me  the  name  of  Pleasure.” 

4.  By  this  time,  the  other  lady  had  come  up,  and  ad^ 
dressed  herself  to  the  young  hero  in  a very  different  manner. 
“Hercules,”  said  she,  “I  offer  myself  to  you,  because  I know 
you  are  descended  from  the  gods,  and  give  proofs  of  that  descent, 
by  your  love  of  virtue,  and  application  to  the  studies  proper  for 
your  age.  This  makes  me  hope  that  you  will  gain,  both  for 
yourself  and  me,  an  immortal  reputation.  But  before  I 
invite  you  into  my  society  and  friendship,  I will  be  open  and 
sincere  with  you;  and  must  lay  this  down  as  an  established 
truth,  that  there  is  nothing  truly  valuable  which  can  be 
purchased  without  pains  and  labor.  The  gods  have  set  a 
price  upon  every  real  and  noble  pleasure.  If  you  would  gain 
the  favor  of  "‘'Deity,  you  must  be  at  the  pains  of  worshiping 
him ; if  the  friendship  of  good  men,  you  must  study  to  oblige 
them;  if  you  would  be  honored  by  your  country,  you  must 
take  care  to  serve  it;  in  short,  if  you  would  be  eminent  in 
war  or  peace,  you  must  become  master  of  all  the  qualifications 
that  can  make  you  so.  These  are  the  only  terms  and  condi- 
tions upon  which  I can  promise  happiness.” 

5.  The  goddess  of  Pleasure  here  broke  in  upon  her  dis- 
course; “You  see,”  said  she,  “Hercules,  by  her  own  con- 
fession, the  way  to  her  pleasures  is  long  and  difficult,  whereas 
that  which  I propose  is  short  and  easy.”  “Alas!”  said  the 
other  lady,  whose  "‘'visage  glowed  with  scorn  and  pity,  “what 
are  the  pleasures  you  propose?  To  eat  before  you  are  hungry, 
drink  before  you  are  thirsty,  sleep  before  you  are  tired;  to 
gratify  appetites  before  they  are  raised,  and  raise  such  ap- 
petites as  nature  never  planted.  You  never  heard  the  most 
"’'delicious  music,  which  is  the  praise  of  yourself;  or  saw  the 
most  beautiful  object,  which  is  the  work  of  your  own  hands. 
Your  "‘'votaries  pass  away  their  youth  in  a dream  of  mistaken 
pleasures ; while  they  are  hoarding  up  "‘'anguish,  torment,  and 
remorse,  for  old  age. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


217 


6.  ‘‘As  for  me,  I am  the  friend  of  the  gods  and  of  good 
men;  an  agreeable  companion  of  the  '•'artisan;  a household 
guardian  to  the  fathers  of  families ; a '•'patron  and  protector 
of  servants ; an  associate  in  all  true  and  generous  friend- 
ships. The  banquets  of  my  '•'votaries  are  never  costly,  but 
always  delicious ; for  none  eat  or  drink  at  them,  who  are  not 
invited  by  hunger  and  thirst.  Their  slumbers  are  sound,  and 
their  wakings  cheerful.  My  young  men  have  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  themselves  praised  by  those  who  are  in  years: 
and  those  who  are  in  years,  of  being  honored  by  those  who 
are  young.  In  a word,  my  followers  are  favored  by  the  gods, 
beloved  by  their  acquaintance,  esteemed  by  their  country, 
and,  after  the  close  of  their  labors,  honored  by  posterity.” 

7.  We  know,  by  the  life  of  this  '•'memorable  hero  to  which 
of  these  two  ladies  he  gave  up  his  heart;  and,  I believe, 
every  one  who  reads  this,  will  do  him  the  justice  to  approve 
of  his  choice. 


LXXX.— AMBITION. 

From  Willis. 

1.  What  is  ambition?  ’T  is  a glorious  cheat! 

It  seeks  the  chamber  of  the  gifted  boy, 

And  lifts  his  humble  window,  and  comes  in; 

The  narrow  walls  '•'expand,  and  spread  away 
Into  a kingly  palace,  and  the  roof 

Lifts  to  the  sky,  and  ninseen  fingers  work 
The  ceilings  with  rich  '•'blazonry,  and  write 
His  name  in  burning  letters  over  all. 

And  ever,  as  he  shuts  his  wildered  eyes, 

The  '•'phantom  comes  and  lays  upon  his  lids 
A spell  that  murders  sleep,  and  in  his  ear 
Whispers  a deathless  word,  and  on  his  brain 
Breathes  a fierce  thirst  no  waters  will  allay. 

2.  He  is  its  slave  henceforth.  His  days  are  spent 
In  chaining  down  his  heart,  and  watching  where 
To  rise  by  human  weaknesses.  His  nights 
Bring  him  no  rest  in  all  their  blessed  hours. 

His  kindred  are  forgotten  or  '•'estranged; 
Unhealthful  fires  burn  constant  in  his  eyd 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


His  lip  grows  restless,  and  its  smile  is  curled 
Half  into  scorn ; till  the  bright,  fiery  boy, 

That  ’twas  a daily  blessing  but  to  see. 

His  spirit  was  so  bird-like  and  so  pure. 

Is  frozen,  in  the  very  flush  of  youth. 

Into  a cold,  +care-fretted,  heartless  man. 

3.  And  what  is  its  reward?  At  best,  a name! 

Praise — ^when  the  ear  has  grown  too  dull  to  hear; 

Gold — when  the  senses  it  should  please  are  dead; 
Wreaths — when  the  hair  they  cover  has  grown  gray. 
Fame — when  the  heart  it  should  have  "^thrilled  is  numb; 
All  things  but  love — when  love  is  all  we  want; 

And  close  behind  comes  Death,  and  ere  we  know. 

That  even  these  '^'unavailing  gifts  are  ours. 

He  sends  us,  stripped  and  naked,  to  the  grave. 


LXXXI.— LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

From  Ossian. 

1.  Reyno.  The  wind  and  rain  are  over;  calm  is  the  noon 
of  day.  The  clouds  are  divided  in  heaven ; over  the  green 
hill  flies  the  inconstant  sun ; red,  through  the  stony  vale, 
comes  down  the  stream  of  the  hill.  Sweet  are  thy  "^murmurs, 
O stream ! But  more  sweet  is  the  voice  I hear.  It  is  the 
voice  of  Alpin,  the  son  of  song,  mourning  for  the  dead.  Bent 
is  his  head  of  age,  and  red  his  tearful  eye.  Alpin,  thou  son 
of  song,  why  alone  on  the  silent  hill?  Why  complainest  thou 
as  a blast  in  the  wood,  as  a wave  on  the  lonely  shore? 

2.  Aljpin.  My  tears,  0 Beyno  ! are  for  the  dead;  my  voice 
for  the  '^'inhabitants  of  the  grave.  Tall  thou  art  on  the  hill ; 
fair  among  the  sons  of  the  slain.  But  thou  shalt  fall  like 
Morar ; and  the  mourners  shall  sit  on  thy  tomb.  The  hills  shall 
know  thee  no  more,  thy  bow  shall  lie  in  the  hails,  unstrung. 

3.  Thou  wert  swift,  0 Morar ! as  a roe  on  the  hill ; terrible 
as  a '^meteor  of  fire.  Thy  wrath  was  as  the  storm;  thy  sword 
in  battle,  as  lightning  in  the  field.  Thy  voice  was  like  a 
stream  after  rain;  like  thunder  on  distant  hills.  Many  fell 
by  thy  arm ; they  were  consumed  in  the  flames  of  thy  wrath. 
But  when  thou  didst  return  from  war,  how  peaceful  was  thy 
brow  ! Thy  face  was  like  the  sun,  after  rain ; like  the  moon, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


219 


in  the  silence  of  night;  calm  as  the  breast  of  the  lake,  when 
the  loud  wind  is  hushed  into  repose.  Narrow  is  thy  dwell- 
ing, now;  dark  the  place  of  thine  abode.  With  three  steps, 
I '^compass  thy  grave,  0 thou,  who  wast  so  great  before  ! 
Four  stones,  with  their  heads  of  moss,  are  the  only  '^memorial 
of  thee.  A tree  with  scarce  a leaf,  long  grass  whistling  in  the 
wind,  mark  to  the  hunter’s  eye,  the  grave  of  mighty  Morar. 

4.  Morar ! thou  art  low  indeed : thou  hast  no  mother  to 
mourn  thee;  no  maid  with  her  tears  of  love.  Dead  is  she 
that  brought  thee  forth  ; fallen  is  the  daughter  of  Morglan. 
Who,  on  his  staff,  is  this?  Who  this,  whose  head  is  white 
with  age,  whose  eyes  are  '^'galled  with  tears,  who  quakes  at 
every  step?  It  is  thy  father,  0 Morar!  the  father  of  no  son 
but  thee.  Weep,  thou  hxther  of  Morar,  weep;  but  thy  son 
heareth  thee  not.  Deep  is  the  sleep  of  the  dead,  low  their 
pillow  of  dust.  No  more  shall  he  hear  thy  voice,  no  more 
awake  at  thy  call.  When  shall  it  be  morn  in  the  grave,  to 
bid  the  slumberer  awake?  Farewell,  thou  bravest  of  men; 
thou  conqueror  of  the  field;  but  the  field  shall  see  thee  no 
more,  nor  the  gloomy  wood  be  lightened  by  the  splendor  of 
thy  steel.  Thou  hast  left  no  son, — but  the  song  shall  pre- 
ser'ue  thy  name. 


LXXXII.— THE  CHURCH-YARD. 

From  Karamisin, 

[The  two  Voices  from  the  Grave.] 

First  Voice. 

How  frightful  the  grave!  how  deserted  and  drear! 

With  the  howls  of  the  storm-wind,  the  '^creaks  of  the  bier, 
And  the  white  bones  all  '’'clattering  together! 

Second  Voice. 

How  peaceful  the  grave;  its  quiet  how  deep! 

Its  ■’'zephyrs  breathe  calmly,  and  soft  is  its  sleep, 

And  flow’ rets  perfume  it  with  ether. 

First  Voice, 

There  '’riots  the  ‘’'blood-crested  worm  on  the  dead, 

And  the  yellow  scull  serves  the  foul  toad  for  a bed, 

And  snakes  in  the  nettle-weeds  hiss. 


220 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Second  Voice. 

How  lovely,  how  sweet  the  repose  of  the  tomb ! 

No  tempests  are  there;  but  the  nightingales  come. 
And  sing  their  sweet  chorus  of  bliss. 

First  Voice. 

The  ravens  of  night  flap  their  wings  o’er  the  grave; 

’Tis  the  vulture’s  abode;  ’tis  the  wolfs  dreary  cave^ 
Where  they  tear  up  the  dead  with  their  fangs. 

Second  Voice. 

There  the  ^cony,  at  evening,  '•'disports  with  his  love, 

Or  rests  on  the  sod;  while  the  turtles  above 
Repose  on  the  bough  that  o’erhangs 

First  Voice. 

There  darkness  and  dampness,  with  poisonous  breath, 

And  loathsome  decay,  fill  the  dwelling  of  death; 

The  trees  are  all  barren  and  bare. 

Second  Voice. 

O!  soft  are  the  breezes  that  play  round  the  tomb, 

And  sweet,  with  the  violets’  wafted  perfume. 

With  lilies  and  jessamine  fair. 

First  Voice. 

The  pilgrim,  who  reaches  this  valley  of  tears, 

Would  fain  hurry  by;  and,  with  trembling  and  fears, 
lie  is  launched  on  the  wreck-covered  river 

Second  Voice. 

Here  the  traveler,  worn  with  life’s  pilgrimage  dreary, 

Lays  down  his  rude  staff*,  like  one  that  is  weary, 

And  sweetly  reposes  forever. 


LXXXIII.— AVESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

From  Addison. 

Joseph  Addison,  an  English  author,  was  born  in  1672.  He  con- 
tributed largely  to  the  Tatler,  a periodical  paper,  and  was  also  the 
chief  writer  of  the  Spectator.  His  writings  afford  the  best  models  of 
style  in  our  language.  He  died  in  1719. 

1.  When  I am  in  a serious  humor,  I very  often  walk  by 
myself  in  Westminster  Abbey,  where  the  gloominess  of  the 
place,  and  the  use  to  which  it  is  applied,  with  the  solemnity 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


221 


of  the  building,  and  the  condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it, 
are  apt  to  fill  the  mind  with  a kind  of  melancholy,  or  rather 
thoughtfulness,  that  is  not  disagreeable.  1 yesterday  passed 
the  whole  afternoon  in  the  church-yard,  the  '^cloisters,  and 
the  church,  amusing  myself  with  the  tombstones  and  inscrip- 
tions that  I met  with  in  those  several  regions  of  the  dead. 
Most  of  them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried  person,  but 
that  he  was  born  upon  one  day,  and  died  upon  another; 
the  whole  history  of  his  life  being  '^'comprehended  in  those 
two  circumstances,  that  are  common  to  all  mankind.  I 
could  not  but  look  upon  these  '^'registers  of  existence,  whether 
of  brass  or  marble,  as  a kind  of  '•'satire  upon  the  departed 
persons;  who  had  left  no  other  memorial  of  them,  but  that 
they  were  l)orn,  and  that  they  died. 

2.  Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I entertained  myself 
with  the  digging  of  a grave,  and  saw  in  every  shovelful  of  it 
that  was  thrown  up,  the  fragment  of  a bone  or  skull,  inter- 
mixed with  a kind  of  fresh,  '•'moldering  earth,  that,  sometime 
or  other,  had  a place  in  the  composition  of  a human  body. 
Upon  this,  I began  to  consider  with  myself,  what  innumer- 
able multitudes  of  people  lay  confused  together  under  the 
pavement  of  that  ancient  '•'cathedral ; how  men  and  women, 
friends  and  enemies,  priests  and  soldiers,  monks  and  '•'prebend- 
aries, were  crumbled  among  one  another,  and  blended  to- 
gether in  the  same  common  mass ; how  beauty,  strength,  and 
youth,  with  old  age,  weakness,  and  deformity,  lay  undistin- 
guished in  the  same  '•'promiscuous  heap  of  matter. 

3.  After  having  thus  surveyed  this  '•'magazine  of  mortality, 
as  it  were  in  the  lump,  I examined  it  more  particularly  by  the 
accounts  which  I found  on  several  of  the  monuments,  which 
are  raised  in  every  quarter  of  that  ancient  '•'fabric.  Some  of 
them  were  covered  with  such  extravagant  '•'epitaphs,  that  if 
it  were  posssible  for  the  dead  person  to  be  acquainted  with 
them,  he  would  blush  at  the  praises  which  his  friends  have 
bestowed  upon  him.  There  are  others  so  excessively  modest, 
that  they  deliver  the  character  of  the  person  departed  in 
Greek  or  Hebrew,  and,  by  that  means,  are  not  understood 
once  in  a twelvemonth.  In  the  poetical  quarter,  I found  there 
were  poets  who  had  no  monuments,  and  monuments  which 
had  no  poets.  I observed,  indeed,  that  the  present  war  had 

19 


222 


NEiV  SIXTH  READER. 


filled  the  church  with  many  of  those  uninhabited  '‘'monu- 
ments, which  had  been  erected  to  the  memory  of  persons, 
whose  bodies  were^  perhaps,  buried  in  the  plains  of  Blenheim, 
or  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

4.  I know  that  entertainments  of  this  nature  are  apt  to 
raise  dark  and  dismal  thoughts  in  timorous  minds  and  gloomy 
imaginations;  but,  for  my  own  part,  though  I am  always 
serious,  I do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  melancholy ; and  can, 
therefore,  take  a view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn 
scenes,  with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay  and  delight- 
ful ones.  By  this  means,  I can  improve  myself  with  those 
objects,  which  others  consider  with  terror. 

5.  When  I look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  emo- 
tion of  envy  dies  in  me;  when  I read  the  epitaphs  of  the 
beautiful,  every  '‘'inordinate  desire  goes  out;  when  I meet 
with  the  grief  of  parents  upon  a tombstone,  my  heart  melts 
with  compassion ; when  I see  the  tomb  of  the  parents  them- 
selves, I consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for  them,  whom  we 
must  quickly  follow.  When  I see  kings  lying  by  those  who 
'‘'deposed  them,  when  I see  rival  wits  lying  side  by  side,  or 
holy  men  that  divided  the  world  by  their  contests  and  dis- 
putes, I reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on  the  little 
'‘'competitions,  '‘'factions,  and  debates  of  mankind.  When  I 
read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that  died 
yesterday,  some,  six  hundred  years  ago,  I consider  that 
great  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  '‘'cotemporaries,  and 
make  our  appearance  together. 


LXXXIV.— ELEGY  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCH-YARD. 

From  Gray. 

Thomas  Gray,  an  English  poet,  was  born  1716,  and  was  educated 
Cambridge.  The  Elegy  Written  in  a Country  Church-yardj  is  the  most 
celebrated  and  popular  of  his  poems.  He  died  in  1771. 

1.  The  ■‘'curfew  tolls  the  '‘'knell  of  parting  day, 

The  lowing  herd  Avinds  slowly  o’er  the  '‘'lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  '‘'plods  his  weary  way. 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


223 


2.  Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  '•'droning  flighty 
And  drowsy  '•'tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  ' 

3.  Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 

The  '•'moping  owl  does  to  the  mr-'^n  complain 
Of  such  as,  wand’ring  near  her  secret  bower. 

Molest  her  ancient  '•'solitary  reign. 

1 Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree’s  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a mold’ ring  heap. 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  '•'hamlet  sleep. 

\ The  breezy  call  of  '•'incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twitt’ring  from  the  straw-built  shed. 
The  cock’s  shrill  '•'clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

6.  For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care; 

Nor  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire’s  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

7.  Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  '•'glebe  has  broke: 
How  '•'jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  strok® 

8.  Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  '•'destiny  obscure; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a disdainful  smile, 

The  short  and  simple  '•'annals  of  the  poor. 

9.  The  boast  of  '•'heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e’er  gave, 

Await  alike,  th’  inevitable  hour. 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

10.  Nor  you,  ye  proud,  '•'impute  to  these  the  fault. 

If  memory  o’er  their  tomb  no  '•'trophies  raise, 

Where,  through  the  long-drawm  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  '•'anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

11.  Can  '•'storied  urn,  or  animated  '•'bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  honor’s  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 

Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot,  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  '^'celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 

Or  waked  to  '^'ecstasy  the  living  lyre ; 

13.  But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne’er  unroll; 

Chill  "^penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 

And  froze  the  '•'genial  current  of  the  soul. 

14.  Full  many  a gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

15.  Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood. 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country’s  blood. 

16.  Th’  applause  of  list’ning  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o’er  a smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a nation’s  eyes, 

17.  Their  lot  forbade:  nor,  '^circumscribed  alone 

Their  glowing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

18.  The  struggling  pangs  of  '•'conscious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  '•'ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride, 

With  '•'incense  kindled  at  the  Muse’s  flame. 

19.  Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  '•'ignoble  strife, 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool,  '•'sequestered  vale  of  life. 

They  kept  the  noiseless  '•'tenor  of  their  way. 

20.  Yet  e’en  these  bones,  from  insult  to  protect. 

Some  frail  '•'memorial  still,  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked. 
Implores  the  passing  '•'tribute  of  a sigh. 

21.  Their  names,  their  years,  spelled  by  the  unlettered  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 

And  many  a holy  text  around  she  strews. 

Teaching  the  rustic  '•'moralist  to  die. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


225 


22.  For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e’er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  "^precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  ling’ ring  look  behind  f 

23.  On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 

E’en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 

E’en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

24.  For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th’  unhonored  dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relat:e 
If,  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led. 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

25.  Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

‘'Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn. 

Brushing,  with  hasty  step,  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn : 

26.  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 

That  wreathes  its  old,  ^fantastic  roots  so  high^ 

His  listless  length,  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

27.  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 

Mutt’ring  his  Avayward  ^fancies,  he  would  rove,- 
Now,  drooping,  woful,  Avan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

28.  One  morn,  I missed  him  on  the  accustomed  hill. 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  fa v’ rite  tree: 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  laAvn,  nor  at  the  Avood  Avas  he : 

29.  The  next,  with  ^dirges  due,  in  sad  '’'array. 

Slow  through  the  church-yard  path,  we  saw  him  borne: — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
’Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.” 

THE  EPITAPH. 

30.  Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 

A youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame,  unknoAvn : 

Fair  "tScience  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth. 

And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

31.  Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere: 

Heaven  did  a recompense  as  largely  send.- 


226 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


He  gave  to  mis’ry  (all  he  had)  a tear, 

He  gained  from  Heav’n  (’twas  all  he  wished)  a friend. 

32.  No  further  seek  his  merits  to  '^'disclose, 

Or  draw  his  '''frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father,  and  his  God. 


LXXXV.— THE  VOYAGE. 

From  Irving. 

1.  To  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he 
has  to  make  is  an  excellent  preparative.  The  temporary 
absence  of  worldly  scenes  and  employments  produces  a state 
of  mind  peculiarly  fitted  to  receive  new  and  vivid  impres- 
sions. The  vast  space  of  waters  that  separates  the  '''hemi- 
spheres  is  like  a blank  page  in  existence.  There  is  no 
gradual  '''transition,  by  which,  as  in  Europe,  the  features  and 
population  of  one  country  blend  almost  '''imperceptibly  with 
those  of  another.  From  the  moment  you  lose  sight  of  the 
land  you  have  left, all  is  '''vacancy  until  you  step  on  the  op- 
posite shore,  and  are  launched,  at  once,  into,  the  bustle  and 
novelties  of  another  world. 

2.  In  traveling  by  land,  there  is  a '''continuity  of  scene, 
and  a connection  of  persons  and  ''incidents  that  carry  on 
the  story  of  life,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence  and  separa- 
tion. We  drag,  it  is  true,  “a  lengthened  chain,”  at  each 
remove  of  our  pilgrimage;  but  the  chain  is  unbroken:  we 
can  trace  it  back  link  by  link ; and  we  feel  that  the  last  of 
them  still  '''grapples  us  to  home.  But  a wide  sea-voyage 
severs  us  at  once.  It  makes  us  conscious  of  being  cast  loose 
from  the  secure  anchorage  of  settled  life,  and  sent  adrift 
upon  a doubtful  world.  It  interposes  a gulf,  not  merely  im- 
aginary, but  real,  between  us  and  our  homes;  a gulf,  subject 
to  tempests,  and  fear,  and  uncertainty,  that  make  distance 
■''palpable,  and  return  ''precarious. 

3.  Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  As  I saw  the 
last  blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a cloud  in  the 
■''horizon,  it  seemed  as  if  I had  closed  one  volume  of  the 
world  and  its  concerns;  and  I had  time  for  meditation  before 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


227 


I opened  another.  That  land,  too,  now  vanishing  from  my 
view,  which  contained  all  that  was  most  dear  to  me  in  life ; 
what  '^'vicissitudes  might  occur  in  it,  what  changes  might  take 
place  in  me,  before  I should  visit  it  again ! Who  can  tell, 
when  he  sets  forth  to  wander,  whither  he  may  be  driven 
by  the  uncertain  currents  of  existence ; or  when  he  may  re- 
turn ; or  whether  it  may  ever  be  his  lot  to  revisit  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood? 

4.  I said,  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy.  I should  correct  the 
expression.  To  one  given  to  day-dreaming,  and  fond  of 
losing  himself  in  reveries,  a sea-voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for 
meditation ; but  then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep,  and 
of  the  air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract  the  mind  from  worldly 
'♦'themes.  I delighted  to  '♦'loll  over  the  quarter-railing,  or  to 
climb  to  the  main-top,  of  a calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours 
together  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a summer’s  sea;  to  gaze 
upon  the  piles  of  golden  clouds,  just  peering  above  the  hori- 
zon, fancy  them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people  them  with  a 
creation  of  my  own ; to  watch  the  gentle  '‘'undulating  billows, 
rolling  their  silver  volumes,  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy 
shores. 

5.  There  was  a delicious  '♦'sensation  of  mingled  security 
and  awe  with  which  I looked  down,  from  my  giddy  height,  at 
the  monsters  of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  '♦'gambols;  shoals 
of  porpoises,  tumbling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship ; the 
grampus,  slowly  heaving  his  huge  form  above  the  surface,  or 
the  '♦'ravenous  shark,  darting,  like  a specter,  through  the  blue 
waters.  My  imagination  would  conjure  up  all  that  I had 
heard  or  read  of  the  watery  world  beneath  me ; of  the  finny 
herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys;  of  the  shapeless  mon^ 
sters  that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth,  and 
of  those  wild  '♦'phantasms  that  swell  the  tales  of  fishermen 
and  sailors. 

6.  Sometimes,  a distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the 
ocean,  would  be  another  theme  of  idle  '♦'speculation.  How 
interesting  this  fragment  of  a world,  hastening  to  rejoin  the 
great  mass  of  existence!  What  a glorious  motiument  of  hu- 
man invention,  that  has  thus  triumphed  over  wind  and  wave ; 
has  brought  the  ends  of  the  world  into  communion ; has  estab- 
lished an  '♦'interchange  of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  '♦'sterile 


228 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


regions  of  the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the  south;  has  dif- 
fused the  light  of  knowledge  and  the  charities  of  cultivated 
life;  and  has  thus  bound  together  those  scattered  portions 
of  the  human  race,  between  which  nature  seemed  to  have 
thrown  an  "^insurmountable  '^'barrier. 

7.  We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at 
a distance.  At  sea,  every  thing  that  breaks  the  monotony 
of  the  surrounding  expanse,  attracts  attention.  It  proved 
to  be  the  mast  of  a ship  that  must  have  been  completely 
wrecked;  for  there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs  by 
which  some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to  the  spar, 
to  prevent  their  being  washed  off  by  the  waves.  There  was 
no  trace  by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascertained. 

8.  The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about  for  many 
months;  clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it,  and 
long  sea-weeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where,  thought  I, 
is  the  crew?  Their  struggle  has  long  been  over;  they  have 
gone  down  amid  the  roar  of  the  tempest;  their  bones  lie 
whitening  among  the  caverns  of  the  deep.  Silence  and  "’'ob- 
livion, like  the  waves,  have  closed  over  them,  and  no  one  can 
tell  the  story  of  their  end.  What  sighs  have  been  "’'wafted 
after  that  ship ! what  prayers  offered  up  at  the  deserted  fire- 
side of  home ! How  often  has  the  father,  the  wife,  the 
mother,  pored  over  the  daily  news,  to  catch  some  "’'casual  in- 
telligence of  this  rover  of  the  deep ! How  has  expectation 
darkened  into  anxiety — anxiety  into  dread — and  dread  into 
despair!  Alas!  not  one  "’'memento  shall  ever  return,  for  love 
to  cherish.  All  that  shall  ever  be  known,  is,  that  she  sailed 
from  her  port,  “and  was  never  heard  of  more.” 


LXXXVI.— THE  VOYAGE— CONCLUDED. 

1.  The  sight  of  the  wreck  gave  rise  to  many  dismal 
anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the  evening, 
when  the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair,  began  to 
look  wild  and  threatening,  and  gave  indications  of  one  of 
those  sudden  storms  that  will  sometimes  break  in  upon  the 
■^serenity  of  a summer’s  voyage.  As  we  sat  around  the  dull 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


229 


light  of  a lamp  in  the  cabin,  that  made  the  gloom  more 
’^ghastly,  every  one  had  his  tale  of  shipwreck  and  disaster. 
I was  particularly  struck  by  a short  one  related  by  the 
captain. 

2.  “As  I was  once  sailing,”  said  he,  “in  a fine,  stout  ship, 
across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  those  heavy  fogs 
that  prevail  in  those  parts  rendered  it  impossible  for  us  to 
*see  far  ahead,  even  in  the  day-time ; but  at  night,  the  weather 
was  so  thick  that  we  could  not  distinguish  any  object  at 
twice  the  length  of  the  ship.  I kept  lights  at  the  mast-head, 
and  a constant  watch  forward  to  look  out  for  '^'fishing-smacks, 
which  are  accustomed  to  lie  at  anchor  on  the  banks.  The 
wind  was  blowing  a smacking  breeze,  and  we  were  going  at 
a great  rate  through  the  water.  Suddenly,  the  watch  gave 
the  alarm  of  ^ a sail  ahead ! ’ It  was  scarcely  uttered  before 
we  were  upon  her.  She  was  a small  schooner,  at  anchor, 
with  her  broadside  toward  us.  The  crew  were  all  asleep, 
and  had  neglected  to  hoist  a light. 

3.  “We  struck  her  just '^'amid-ships.  The  force,  the  size, 
the  weight  of  our  vessel  bore  her  down  below  the  waves; 
we  passed  over  her  and  were  hurried  on  pur  course.  As 
the  crashing  wreck  was  sinking  beneath  us,  I had  a glimpse 
of  two  or  three  half-naked  wretches,  rushing  from  her  cabin ; 
they  just  started  from  their  beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking 
by  the  waves.  I heard  their  drowning  cry  mingling  with 
the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore  it  to  our  ears  swept  us  out  of 
all  further  hearing.  I shall  never  forget  that  cry ! It  was 
some  time  before  we  could  put  the  ship  about,  she  was  under 
such  headway.  We  returned,  as  nearly  as  we  could  guess, 
to  the  place  where  the  smack  had  anchored.  We  cruised 
about  for  several  hours  in  the  dense  fog.  We  fired  signal 
guns,  and  listened  if  we  might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  '^sur- 
vivors : but  all  was  silent — we  never  saw  or  heard  any  thing 
of  them  more.” 

4.  I confess  these  stories,  for  a time,  put  an  end  to  all  my 
fine  fancies.  The  storm  increased  with  the  night.  The  sea 
was  / ished  into  '^'tremendous  confusion.  There  was  a fearful, 
sullen  sound  of  rushing  waves,  and  broken  '’'surges.  At 
times  the  black  volume  of  clouds  overhead  seemed  rent 
asunder  by  flashes  of  lightning  that  quivered  along  the 


230 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


foaming  billows,  and  made  the  succeeding  darkness  doubly 
terrible.  The  thunders  bellowed  over  the  wild  waste  of 
waters,  and  were  echoed  and  prolonged  by  the  mountain 
waves.  As  I saw  the  ship  staggering  and  plunging  among 
these  roaring  caverns,  it  seemed  '^miraculous  that  she  re- 
gained her  balance,  or  preserved  her  '^'buoyancy.  Her  yards 
would  dip  into  the  water : her  bow  was  almost  buried  beneath 
the  waves.  Sometimes,  an  '^impending  '‘'surge  appeared  ready 
to  overwhelm  her,  and  nothing  but  a '‘'dexterous  movement 
of  the  helm  preserved  her  from  the  shock. 

5.  When  I retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful  scene  still  fol- 
lowed me.  The  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  rigging 
sounded  like  funeral  wailings.  The  creaking  of  the  masts, 
the  straining  and  groaning  of  '‘'bulk-heads,  as  the  ship 
labored  in  the  '‘'weltering  sea,  were  frightful.  As  I heard  the 
waves  rushing  along  the  sides  of  the  ship,  and  roaring  in  my 
very  ear,  it  seemed  as  if  Death  were  raging  round  this  float- 
ing prison,  seeking  for  his  prey;  the  mere  starting  of  a nail, 
the  yawning  of  a seam,  might  give  him  entrance. 

6.  A flne  day,  however,  with  a tranquil  sea  and  favoring 
breeze,  soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflections  to  flight.  It  is 
impossible  to  resist  the  gladdening  influence  of  flne  weather 
and  fair  wind  at  sea.  When  the  ship  is  decked  out  in  all  her 
'‘'canvas,  every  sail  swelled,  and  '‘'careering  gayly  over  the 
curling  waves,  how  lofty,  how  gallant  she  appears!  how  she 
seems  to  lord  it  over  the  deep ! — But  it  is  time  to  get  ashore. 

7.  It  was  a fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  of 
‘Hand!”  was  heard  from  the  mast-head.  None  but  those 
who  have  experienced  it  can  form  an  idea  of  the  delicious 
throng  of  sensations  which  rush  into  an  American’s  bosom, 
when  he  first  comes  in  sight  of  Europe.  There  is  a volume 
t)f  associations  with  the  very  name.  It  is  the  land  of 
promise,  '‘'teeming  with  every  thing  of  which  his  childhood 
has  heard,  or  on  which  his  studious  years  have  '‘'pondered. 
From  that  time  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  it  was  all  fever- 
ish '‘'excitement.  The  ships  of  war,  that  '‘'prowled  like  '‘'guard- 
ian giants  along  the  coast ; the  headlands  of  Ireland,  st  etch- 
ing  out  into  the  channel;  the  Welsh  mountains,  towering  into 
the  clouds;  all  were  objects  of  intense  interest.  As  we  sailed 
up  the  Mersey,  my  eye  dwelt  with  delight- on  neat  cottages, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


231 


with  their  trim  shrubberies  and  green  grass-plots.  I saw 
the  moldering  ruins  of  an  abbey  overrun  with  ivy,  and  the 
taper  spire  of  the  village  church,  rising  from  the  brow  of  a 
neighboring  hill.  All  were  '^characteristic  of  England. 

8.  The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable  that  the  ship  was 
enabled  to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It  was  thronged  with 
people ; some,  idle  lookers-on ; others,  eager  expectants  of 
friends  or  relatives.  I could  distinguish  the  merchant  to 
whom  the  ship  was  "^consigned.  I knew  him  by  his  calculating 
brow  and  restless  air.  His  hands  were  thrust  into  his  pockets  ; 
he  was  whistling  thoughtfull}^,  and  walking  to  and  fro,  a small 
space  having  been  accorded  to  him  by  the  crowd,  in  deference 
to  his  temporary  importance.  There  were  repeated  cheerings 
and  salutations  interchanged  between  the  shore  and  the  ship, 
as  friends  happened  to  "^recognize  each  other. 

9.  I particularly  noticed  one  young  woman,  of  humble  dress, 
but  interesting  '^'demeanor.  She  was  leaning:  forward  from 
among  the  crowd ; her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as  it  neared 
the  shore,  to  catch  some  wished-for  countenance.  She  seemed 
disappointed  and  agitated ; when  I heard  a faint  voice  call  her 
name.  It  was  from  a poor  sailor  who  had  been  ill,  all  the 
voyage,  and  had  excited  the  sympathy  of  every  one  on  board. 
When  the  weather  was  fine,  his  messmates  had  spread  a mat- 
tress for  him  on  deck  in  the  shade,  but  of  late  his  illness 
had  so  increased,  that  he  h :d  taken  to  his  '^hammock,  and 
only  breathed  a wish  that  he  might  see  his  wife  before  he 
died.  He  had  been  helped  on  deck  as  we  came  up  the  river, 
and  was  now  leaning  against  the  shrouds,  with  a countenance 
so  wasted,  so  pale,  so  ghastly,  that  it  was  no  wonder  even  the 
eye  of  affection  did  not  recognize  him.  But  at  the  sound  of  , 
his  voice,  her  eye  darted  on  his  features:  it  read,  at  once,  the  f 
whole  volume  of  sorrow ; she  clasped  her  hands,  uttered  a 
faint  shriek,  and  stood  wringing  them  in  silent  agony. 

10.  All  was  now  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meetings  of  ac- 
quaintances; the  greetings  of  friends ; the  consultations  of  men 
of  business.  I alone  was  '^'solitary  and  idle.  I had  no  friend  to 
meet,  no  cheering  to  receive.  I stepped  upon  the  land  of  my 
forefathers,  but  felt  that  I was  a stranger  in  the  land. 


232 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


LXXXVIL— SONG  OF  EMIGRATION. 

From  Mrs.  Hemans. 

1.  There  was  heard  a song  on  the  '•'chiming  sea, 

A mingled  breathing  of  grief  and  '•'glee ; 

Man’s  voice,  unbroken  by  sighs,  was  there. 

Filling  with  triumph  the  sunny  air; 

Of  fresh,  green  lands,  and  of  pastures  new. 

It  sang,  while  the  bark  through  the  '•'surges  flew, 

But  ever  and  anon 

A murmur  of  farewell. 

Told,  by  its  '’'plaintive  tone. 

That  from  woman’s  lip  it  fell. 

2.  “Away,  away,  o’er  the  foaming  main!” 

This  was  the  free  and  joyous  strain, 

“There  are  clearer  skies  than  ours  afar. 

We  will  shape  our  course  by  a brighter  star; 

There  are  plains  whose  '•'verdure  no  foot  hath  pressed^ 
And  whose  wealth  is  all  for  the  first  brave  guest.’ 
“But,  alas!  that  we  should  go,” 

Sang  the  farewell  voices  then, 

“From  the  '•'homestead,  warm  and  low, 

By  the  brook  and  in  the  glen!” 

3.  “We  will  rear  new  homes,  under  trees  that  glow 
As  if  gems  were  the  '•'fruitage  of  every  bough; 

O’er  our  white  walls,  we  will  train  the  vine. 

And  sit  in  its  shadow  at  day’s  decline; 

And  watch  our  herds  as  they  range  at  will 
Through  the  green  '‘  savannas,  all  bright  and  still.'’ 

“ But  woe  for  that  sweet  shade 
Of  the  flowering  orchard  trees. 

Where  first  our  children  played 
’Mid  the  birds  and  honey-bees!” 

4.  “All,  all  our  own  shall  the  forests  be. 

As  to  the  bound  of  the  '•'roebuck  free! 

None  shall  say,  ‘ Hither,  no  further  pass  ! ' 

We  will  track  each  step  through  the  wavy  grass; 

We  will  chase  the  elk  in  his  speed  and  might, 

And  bring  proud  spoils  to  the  hearth  at  night.” 

“But  0,  the  gray  church  tower. 

And  the  sound  of  the  sabbath  bell. 

And  the  sheltered  garden  bower. 

We  have  bid  them  all  farewell!” 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


233 


5.  “We  will  give  the  names  of  our  fearless  race 
To  each  bright  river  whose  course  we  trace; 

We  will  leave  our  memory  with  mounts  and  floods, 
And  the  path  of  our  daring  in  boundless  woods; 
And  our  works  on  many  a lake’s  green  shore, 
Where  the  Indians’  graves  lay  alone,  before.” 

“But  who  shall  teach  the  flowers, 

Which  our  children  loved,  to  dwell 
• In  a soil  that  is  not  ours? 

Home,  home  and  friends,  farewell!” 


LXXXVIII.— SCENE  FROM  THE  POOR  GENTLEMAN. 

From  Colman. 

Si7-  Rohei't  Bramble  and  Humphrey  Dobbins. 

Sir  R.  I ’ll  tell  you  what,  Humphrey  Dobbins,  there  is 
not  a syllable  of  sense  in  all  you  have  been  saying.  But  I 
suppose  you  will  maintain  there  is. 

Hum.  Yes. 

Sir  R.  Yes  ! is  that  the  way  you  talk  to  me,  you  old  boor? 
What 's  my  name  ? 

Hum.  Robert  Bramble. 

Sir  R.  An’t  I a baronet?  Sir  Robert  Bramble  of  Black- 
berry Hall,  in  the  county  of  Kent?  ’T  is  time  you  should 
know  it,  for  you  have  been  my  clumsy,  two-flsted  valet  these 
thirty  years : can  you  deny  that  ? 

Hum.  Hem ! 

Sir  R.  Hem?  AVhat  do  you  mean  by  hem?  Open  that 
rusty  door  of  your  mouth,  and  make  your  ugly  voice  walk 
out  of  it.  Why  do  n’t  you  answer  my  question? 

Hum.  Because,  if  I '^contradict  you,  I shall  tell  you  a lie, 
and  when  I agree  with  you,  you  are  sure  to  fall  out. 

Sir  R.  Humphrey  Dobbins,  I have  been  so  long  endeavor- 
ing to  beat  a few  brains  into  your  "^pate,  that  all  your  hair  has 
tumbled  off  before  my  point  is  carried. 

Hum.  What  then  ? Our  parson  says  my  head  is  an  '^em- 
blem of  both  our  honors. 

Sir  R.  Ay;  because  honors,  like  your  head,  are  apt  to  be 
empty. 

Hum.  No;  but  if  a servant  has  grown  bald  under  his  mas- 


234 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


ter’s  nose,  it  looks  as  if  there  was  honesty  on  one  side,  and 
regard  for  it  on  the  other. 

Sir  R.  Why,  to  be  sure,  old  Hum’C'hrey,  you  are  as  honest 
as  a — pshaw!  the  parson  means  to  '^palaver  us;  but,  to 
return  to  my  position,  I tell  you,  I do  n’t  like  your  flat 
'^'contradiction. 

Hum.  Yes,  you  do. 

Sir  R.  I tell  you  I do  n’t.  I only  love  to  hear  men’s  ar- 
guments.  I hate  their  '^flummery. 

Hum.  What  do  you  call  flummery? 

Sir  R.  Flattery,  blockhead  1 a dish  too  often  served  up 
by  paltry  poor  men  to  paltry  rich  ones. 

Hum.  I never  serve  it  up  to  you. 

Sir  R.  No,  you  give  me  a dish  of  a difl^rent  description. 

Hum.  Hem!  what  is  it? 

Sir  R.  '*'Sour-krout,  you  old  crab. 

Hum.  I have  held  you  a stout  tug  at  argument  this  many 
a year. 

Sir  R.  And  yet  I could  never  teach  you  a '^syllogism. 
Now  mind,  when  a poor  man  assents  to  what  a rich  man 
says,  I suspect  he  means  to  flatter  him;  now  I am  rich, 
and  hate  flattery.  Ergo — when  a poor  man  subscribes  to 
my  opinion,  I hate  him. 

Hum.  That ’s  wrong. 

Sir  R.  Very  well;  negatur ; now  prove  it. 

Hum.  Put  the  case  then,  I am  a poor  man. 

Sir  R.  You  an’t,  you  scoundrel.  You  know  you  shall 
never  want,  while  I have  a shilling. 

Hum.  Well,  then,  I am  a poor — I must  be  ^ poor  man 
now,  or  I never  shall  get  on. 

Sir  R.  Well,  get  on,  be  a poor  man. 

Him.  I am  a poor  man,  and  argue  with  you,  and  convince 
you,  you  are  wrong;  then  you  call  yourself  a blockhead,  and 
I am  of  your  opinion : now,  that ’s  no  flattery. 

Sir  R.  Why,  no;  but  when  a mah ’s  of  the  same  opinion 
with  me,  he  puts  an  end  to  the  argument,  and  that  puls  an 
end  to  the  conversation,  and  so  I hate  him  for  that.  But 
where ’s  my  nephew,  Frederic  ? 

Hum.  Been  out  these  two  hours. 

Sir  R.  An  undutiful  cub ! Only  arrived  from  Bussia.  last 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


235 


night,  and  though  I told  him  to  stay  at  home  till  I rose,  he ’s 
scampering  over  the  fields  like  a Calmuc  '‘'Tartar. 

Hum.  He ’s  a fine  fellow. 

Sir  R.  He  has  a touch  of  our  family.  Ho  n’t  you  think 
he  is  a little  like  me,  Humphrey? 

Hum.  No,  not  a bit;  you  are  as  ugly  an  old  man  as  ever 
I clapped  my  eyes  on. 

Sir  R.  Now  that’s  plaguy  impudent,  but  there’s  no  flat- 
tery in  it,  and  it  keeps  up  the  independence  of  argument. 
His  father,  my  brother  Job,  is  of  as  tame  a spirit — Hum- 
phrey, you  remember  my  brother  Job? 

Hum.  Yes,  you  drove  him  to  Russia  five-and-twenty  years 
ago. 

Sir  R.  I did  not  drive  him. 

Hum.  Yes,  you  did.  You  would  never  let  him  be  at  peace 
in  the  way  of  argument. 

Sir  R.  At  peace ! Zounds,  he  would  never  go  to  war. 

Hum.  He  had  the  merit  to  be  calm. 

Sir  R.  So  has  a duck-pond.  He  received  my  arguments 
with  his  mouth  open,  like  a poor-box  gaping  for  half-pence, 
and,  good  or  bad,  he  swallowed  them  all  without  any  resist- 
ance. We  couldn’t  disagree,  and  so  we  parted. 

Him.  And  the  poor,  meek  gentleman  went  to  Russia  for 
a quiet  life. 

Sir  R.  A quiet  life ! Why,  he  married  the  moment  he  got 
there,  tacked  himself  to  the  shrew  '‘'relict  of  a Russian  mer- 
chant, and  continued  a '‘'speculation  with  her  in  furs,  flax, 
potashes,  tallow,  linen,  and  leather;  what’s  the  consequence? 
Thirteen  months  ago  he  broke. 

Hum.  Poor  soul,  his  wife  should  have  followed  the  busi- 
ness for  him. 

Sir  R.  I fiincy  she  did  follow  it,  for  she  died  just  as  he 
broke,  and  now  this  madcap,  Frederic,  is  sent  over  to  me  for 
protection.  Poor  Job,  now  he  is  in  distress,  I must  not  neg- 
lect his  son. 

Hum.  Here  comes  his  son ; that ’s  Mr.  Frederic. 

Fred.  0,  my  dear  uncle,  good  morning!  Your  park  is 
nothing  but  beauty. 

Sir  R.  Who  bid  you  caper  over  my  beauty?  I told  you 
to  stay  ia-doors  till  I got  up. 


236 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Fred.  So  you  did,  but  I entirely  forgot  it. 

Sir  R.  And  pray,  what  made  you  forget  it? 

Fred.  The  sun. 

Sir  R.  The  sun  ! he ’s  mad ! you  mean  the  moon,  I believe. 

Fred.  0,  my  dear  uncle,  you  do  n’t  know  the  effect  of  a 
hne  spring  morning,  upon  a fellow  just  arrived  from  Russia. 
The  day  looked  bright,  trees  budding,  birds  singing,  the 
park  was  so  gay  that  I took  a leap  out  of  your  old  '^balcony, 
made  your  deer  fly  before  me  like  the  wind,  and  chased  them 
all  around  the  park  to  get  an  appetite  for  breakfast,  while 
you  were  snoring  in  bed,  uncle. 

Sir  R.  Oh,  oh  ! So  the  effect  of  English  sunshine  upon 
a Russian,  is  to  make  him  jump  out  of  a balcony,  and  worry 
my  deer. 

Fred.  I confess  it  had  that  influence  upon  me. 

Sir  R.  You  had  better  be  influenced  by  a rich  old  uncle, 
unless  you  think  the  sun  likely  to  leave  you  a fat  '^'legacy. 

Fred.  I hate  legacies. 

Sir  R.  Sir,  that ’s  mighty  singular.  They  are  pretty  solid 
tokens,  at  least. 

Fred.  Very  melancholy  tokens,  uncle;  they  are  '’'posthu- 
mous  '‘'dispatches,  affection  sends  to  gratitude,  to  inform  us 
we  have  lost  a gracious  friend. 

Sir  R.  How  charmingly  the  dog  argues! 

Fred.  Rut  I own  my  spirits  ran  away  with  me  this  morn- 
ing. I will  obey  you  better  in  future ; for  they  tell  me  you 
are  a very  worthy,  good  sort  of  gentleman. 

Sir  R.  Now  who  had  the  '‘'familiar  '•'impudence  to  tell  you 
that? 

Fred.  Old  rusty,  there. 

Sir  R.  Why  Humphrey,  you  did  n’t? 

Hum.  Yes,  but  I did  though. 

Fred.  Yes,  he  did,  and  on  that  score  I shall  be  anxious  to 
show  you  obedience,  for  ’t  is  as  '•'meritorious  to  attempt 
sharing  a good  man’s  heart,  as  it  is  paltry  to  have  designs 
upon  a rich  man’s  money.  A noble  nature  aims  its  atten- 
tions full  breast  high,  uncle  ; a mean  mind  levels  its  dirty 
'^assiduities  at  the  pocket. 

Sir  R.  [^Shaking  him  by  the  hand.']  Jump  out  of  every 
window  I have  in  the  house;  hunt  my  deer  into  high  feversi, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


237 


my  fine  fellow  ! Ay,  that ’s  right.  This  is  spunk,  and  plain 
speaking.  Grive  me  a man,  who  is  always  flinging  his  '♦'dis- 
sent to  my  doctrines  smack  in  my  teeth. 

Fred.  I disagree  with  you  there,  uncle. 

Hum.  And  so  do  I. 

Fred.  You  ! you  forward  puppy  ! If  you  were  not  so  old, 
I ’d  knock  you  down. 

Sir  R.  I ’ll  knock  you  down,  if  you  do.  I won’t  have  my 
servants  thumped  into  dumb  flattery. 

Hum.  Come,  you  are  ruffled.  Let  us  go  to  the  business 
of  the  morning. 

Sir  R.  I hate  the  business  of  the  morning.  Do  n’t  you 
see  we  are  engaged  in  '♦'discussion.  I tell  you,  I hate  the 
business  of  the  morning. 

Hum.  No  you  do  n’t. 

Sir  R.  Do  n’t  I?  Why  not? 

Hum.  Because  ’t  is  charity. 

Sir  R.  Pshaw  ! Well,  we  must  not  neglect  the  business,  if 
there  be  any  distress  in  the  parish.  Bead  the  list,  Humphrey. 

Hum.  \Tahing  out  a pag)er  and  reading. “Jonathan 
Huggins,  of  Muck  Mead,  is  put  in  prison  for  debt.” 

Sir  R.  Why,  it  was  only  last  week  that  Gripe,  the  attorney, 
recovered  two  cottages  for  him  by  law,  worth  sixty  pounds. 

Hum.  Yes,  and  charged  a hundred  for  his  trouble;  so 
seized  the  cottages  for  part  of  his  bill,  and  threw  Jonathan 
into  jail  for  the  remainder. 

Sir  R.  A harpy  ! I must  relieve  the  poor  fellow’s  distress. 

Fred.  And  I must  kick  his  attorney. 

Hum.  \_Reading.~\  “The  curate’s  horse  is  dead.” 

Sir  R.  Pshaw ! There ’s  no  distress  in  that. 

Hum.  Yes,  there  is,  to  a man  that  must  go  twenty  miles 
every  Sunday,  to  preach,  for  thirty  pounds  a year. 

Sir  R.  Why  won’t  the  vicar  give  him  another  nag? 

Hum.  Because  ’t  is  cheaper  to  get  another  curate  already 
mounted. 

Sir  R.  Well,  send  him  the  black  pad  which  I purchased 
last  Tuesday,  and  tell  him  to  work  him  as  long  as  he  lives. 
What  else  have  we  upon  the  list? 

Hum.  Something  out  of  the  common  ; there ’s  one  Lieuten- 
ant Worthington,  a disabled  officer  and  widower,  come  to  lodge 
20 


238 


NEW  SIXTH  READER, 


at  farmer  Harrowby’s,  in  the  village;  he  is,  it  seems,  very 
poor,  and  more  proud  than  poor,  and  more  honest  than  proud. 

Sir  R.  And  so  he  sends  to  me  for  assistance. 

Hum.  He ’d  see  you  hanged  first ! No,  he ’d  sooner  die  than 
ask  you  or  any  man  for  a shilling ! There ’s  his  daughter,  and 
his  wife’s  aunt,  and  an  old  corporal  that  served  in  the  wars 
with  him,  he  keeps  them  all  upon  his  half-pay. 

Sir  R.  Starves  them  all,  I ’m  afraid,  Humphrey. 

Fred.  \_Going.'\  Good  morning,  uncle. 

Sir  R.  You  rogue,  where  are  you  running,  now? 

Fred.  To  talk  with  Lieutenant  Worthington. 

Sir  R.  And  what  may  you  be  going  to  say  to  him? 

Fred.  I can’t  tell  till  I encounter  him;  and  then,  uncle, 
when  I have  an  old  gentleman  by  the  hand,  who  has  been 
disabled  in  his  country’s  service,  and  is  struggling  to  support 
his  motherless  child,  a poor  relation,  and  a faithful  servant, 
in  honorable  '‘'indigence,  impulse  will  supply  me  with  words 
to  express  my  sentiments. 

Sir  R.  Stop,  you  rogue ; I must  be  before  you  in  this 
business. 

Fred.  That  depends  on  who  can  run  the  fastest;  so,  start 
fair,  uncle,  and  here  goes. — out.'\ 

Sir  R.  Stop,  stop ; why,  Frederic — a '^'jackanapes — to  take 
my  department  out  of  my  hands!  I ’ll  disinherit  the  dog  for 
his  assurance. 

Hum.  No,  you  won’t. 

Sir  R.  Won’t  I?  Hang  me  if  I — but  we’ll  argue  that 
point  as  we  go.  So,  come  along  Humphrey. 


LXXXIX.—THE  WELL  OF  ST.  KEYNE. 

From  Southey. 

St.  Keyne  was  a Welch  princess,  who  lived  and  died  near  the  well 
which  was  named  after  her.  It  was  tpopularly  believed,  that  she  laid 
upon  this  well  the  spell  described  in  this  ballad. 

* An  ; an  obsolete  word,  meaning  if. 

1.  A WELL  there  is  in  the  west  country, 

And  a clearer  one  never  was  seen  ; 

There  is  not  a wife  in  the  west  country, 

But  has  heard  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


239 


2.  An  oak  and  an  elm-tree  stand  beside, 

And  behind  does  an  ash-tree  grow, 

And  a willow  from  the  bank  above, 

Droops  to  the  water  below. 

3.  A traveler  came  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne : 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh, 

For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  traveling. 

And  there  was  not  a cloud  in  the  sky. 

4.  He  drank  of  the  water,  so  cool  and  clear. 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he ; 

And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank 
Under  the  willow-tree. 

5.  There  came  a man  from  the  neighboring  town. 

At  the  well  to  fill  his  pail ; 

On  the  well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  he  bade  the  stranger  '^hail. 

d.  “Now  art  thou  a bachelor,  stranger?”  quoth  he, 
'‘For  an  thou  hast  a wife. 

The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this  day 
That  ever  thou  didst  in  th}^  life. 

7.  “Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast. 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  ? 

For  an  she  have,  I ’ll  venture  my  life, 
fehe  has  drank  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne.” 

S.  “I  have  left  a good  woman,  who  never  was  here,” 
The  stranger  he  made  reply  ; 

“ But  that  my  draught  should  be  better  for  that, 

1 pray  you  answer  me  why.” 

9.  “St.  Keyne,’’  '^'quoth  the  Cornish-man,  “many  a time 
Drank  of  this  ^crystal  well ; 

And  before  the  angel  summoned  her. 

She  laid  on  the  water  a spell. 

10.  “ If  the  husband,  of  this  gifted  well 

Shall  drink  before  his  wife, 

A happy  man  thenceforth  is  he. 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life. 

11.  “ But  if  the  wife  should  drink  of  it  first, 

God  help  the  husband  then ! ” 

The  stranger  stooped  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  water  again. 


240 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


12.  “ You  drank  of  the  well,  I warrant,  '•'betimes ! 

He  to  the  Cornish-man  said : 

But  the  Cornish-man  smiled,  as  the  stranger  spake, 
And  sheepishly  shook  his  head. 

13.  “I  hastened,  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done, 

And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch ; 

But  in  faith ! she  had  been  wiser  than  I, 

For  she  took  a bottle  to  church.” 


XC.— THE  FOLLY  OF  INTOXICATION. 

From  Shakspeare. 

Cassio  and  Iago. 

lago.  What!  are  you  hurt,  lieutenant? 

Cassio.  Past  ail  surgery. 

Iago.  Marry,  heaven  forbid  ! 

Cas.  '•'Beputation,  reputation,  reputation  I Oh,  I have  lost 
my  reputation  1 I have  lost  the  immortal  part  of  myself,  and 
what  remains  is  '•'bestial.  My  reputation!  Iago,  my  reputa- 
tion ! 

Iago.  As  I am  an  honest  man,  I thought  you  had  received 
some  bodily  wound . there  is  more  sense  in  that  than  in 
reputation.  Heputatioa  is  an  idle  and  most  false  imposition : 
oft  got  without  merit,  and  lost  without  deserving.  What, 
man ! there  are  ways  to  recover  the  general  again.  Sue  to 
him,  and  he ’s  yours. 

Cas.  I will  rather  sue  to  be  despised.  Drunk  ! and  squab- 
ble ! swagger ! swear ! and  discourse  '•'fustian  with  one’s  own 
shadow!  Oh,  thou  '•'invisible  spirit  of  wine!  if  thou  hast  no 
name  to  be  known  by,  let  us  call  thee  devil. 

Iago.  What  was  he  that  you  followed  with  your  sword? 
What  had  he  done  to  you? 

Cas.  I know  not. 

Iago.  Is ’t  possible? 

Cas.  I remember  a mass  of  things,  but  nothing  distinctly  ; 
a qucrrrel,  but  nothing  wherefore.  Oh,  that  men  should  put 
an  enemy  into  their  mouths  to  steal  away  their  brains : that 
we  should,  with  joy,  gayety,  revel,  and  applause,  transform 
ourselves  into  beasts! 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


24J 


lago.  Why,  but  you  are  now  well  enough : how  came  you 
thus  recovered  ? 

Cas.  It  has  pleased  the  devil,  Drunkenness,  to  give  place 
to  the  devil,  Wrath;  one  imperfection  shows  me  another,  to 
make  me  frankly  despise  myself. 

lago.  Come,  you  are  too  severe  a '‘'moralizer.  As  the  time, 
the  place,  and  the  condition  of  this  country  stands,  I could 
heartily  wish  this  had  not  befallen;  but  since  it  is  as  it  is, 
mend  it  for  your  own  good. 

Cas.  If  I ask  him  for  my  place  again,  he  will  teil  me  I am 
a drunkard ! Had  I as  many  mouths  as  Hydra,  such  an 
answer  would  stop  them  all.  'To  be  now  a sensible  man,  by 
and  by  a fool,  and  presently  a beast ! Every  '’'inordinate  cup 
is  unblessed,  and  the  '’'ingredient  is  a devil. 

lago.  Come,  come,  good  wine  is  a good  familiar  creature, 
if  it  be  well  used ; exclaim  no  more  against  it.  And,  good 
lieutenant,  I think,  you  think  I love  you. 

Cas.  I have  well  approved  it,  sir.  I,  drunk ! 
lago  You  or  any  living  man,  may  be  drunk  at  some  time, 
man.  I tell  you  what  you  shall  do.  Our  general’s  wife  is 
now  the  general.  Confess  yourself  freely  to  her;  '’'importune 
her  help  to  put  you  in  your  place  again.  She  is  of  so  free, 
so  apt,  so  kind,  so  blessed  a disposition,  she  holds  it  a vice  in 
her  goodness  not  to  do  more  than  she  is  requested.  This 
broken  joint  between  you  and  her  husband,  entreat  her  to 
splinter;  and,  my  fortunes  against  any  '’'lay  worth  naming, 
this  crack  of  your  love  shall  grow  stronger  than  it  was  before. 
Cas.  You  advise  me  well. 

lago.  I protest  in  all  the  sincerity  of  love  and  honest 
kindness. 

Cas.  I think  it  freely,  and  betimes  in  the  morning,  I will 
beseech  the  virtuous  Desdemona  to  undertake  for  me. 

lago.  You  are  in  the  right.  Grood-night,  lieutenant,  I 
must  go  to  the  watch. 

Cas.  Good-night,  honest  lagq. 


242 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


XCI.— AN  ELEGY  ON  MADAM  BLAIZE. 
From  Goldsmith. 

1.  Good  people  all,  with  one  "^accord, 

Lament  for  Madam  Blaize, 

Who  never  wanted  a good  word — 

From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

2.  The  needy  seldom  passed  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor — 

Who  left  a pledge  behind. 

3.  She  strove  the  neighborhood  to  please, 

With  manner  wondrous  winning; 

She  never  followed  wicked  ways — 

Unless  Avhen  she  was  sinning. 

4.  At  church,  in  silks  and  satin  new. 

With  "^hoop  of  monstrous  size, 

She  never  slumbered  in  her  pew — 

But  Avhen  she  shut  her  eyes. 

5.  Her  love  was  sought,  1 do  aver, 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more; 

The  king  himself  has  followed  her — 
When  she  has  walked  before. 

6.  But  now,  her  wealth  and  ^finery  fled, 

Her  +hangers-on  cut  short  all. 

Her  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead — » 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

7.  Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore; 

For  Kent  Street  well  may  say. 

That,  had  she  lived  a twelvemonth  more — 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 


XCIL— THE  EVILS  OF  WAR. 

1.  Nobody  sees  a battle.  The  common  soldier  fires  away 
amid  a smoke-mist,  or  hurries  on  to  the  charge  in  a crowd, 
which  hides  every  thing  from  him.  The  officer  is  too  anx- 
ious about  the  '^performance  of  what  he  is  '^'especially 
charged  with,  to  mind  what  others  are  doing.  The  com- 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


243 


mander  can  not  be  present  every-wliere,  and  see  every  wood, 
water-course,  or  '’'ravine,  in  wliicli  bis  orders  are  carried  into 
execution  ; he  learns,  from  reports,  how  the  work  goes  on. 
It  is  well;  for  a battle  is  one  of  those  jobs  which  men  do, 
without  daring  to  look  upon.  Over  miles  of  country,  at  ev 
ery  field-fence,  in  every  '’'gorge  of  a valley,  or  entry  into  a 
wood,  there  is  murder  committing — wholesale,  continuous, 
■’'reciprocal  murder.  The  human  form,  God’s  image,  is  ’'mu- 
tilated, deformed,  '’'lacerated,  in  every  possible  way,  and  with 
every  variety  of  torture.  The  wounded  are  jolted  off  in 
carts  to  the  rear,  their  bared  nerves  crushed  into  madden- 
ing pain  at  every  stone  or  rut;  or  the  fiight  and  pursuit 
trample  over  them,  leaving  them  to  writhe  and  groan,  with- 
out assistance;  and  fever  and  thirst,  the  most  enduring  of 
painful  ■’'sensations,  possess  them  entirely. 

2.  Thirst,  too,  has  seized  upon  the  yet  able-bodied  soldier, 
who  with  blood-shot  eye  and  tongue  lolling  out,  '’'plies  his 
trade;  blaspheming;  killing,  with  savage  delight;  callous, 
when  the  brains  of  his  best-loved  comrade  are  spattered  over 
him ! The  battle-field  is,  if  possible,  a more  painful  object 
of  contemplation  than  the  combatants.  They  are  in  their 
’’'vocation,  earning  their  bread : what  will  not  men  do  for  a 
shilling  a day?  But  their  work  is  carried  on  amid  the  fields, 
gardens,  and  homesteads  of  men  unused  to  war.  They  left 
their  homes,  with  all  that  habit  and  happy  associations  have 
made  precious,  to  bear  its  brunt.  The  poor,  the  aged,  the 
sick  are  left  in  a hurry,  to  be  killed  by  stray  shots  or  beaten 
down  as  the  charge  or  counter-charge  goes  over  them.  The 
ripening  grain  is  trampled  down ; the  garden  is  trodden  into 
a black  mud;  the  fruit-trees,  bending  beneath  their  '’'lus- 
cious load,  are  shattered  by  the  cannon-shot;  churches  and 
private  dwellings  are  used  as  fortresses,  and  ruined  in  the 
■’'confiict;  barns  and  '’'granaries  take  fire,  and  the  confiagra- 
tion  spreads  on  all  sides. 

3.  At  night,  the  steed  is  stabled  beside  the  altar,  and 
the  weary  ’'homicides  of  the  day  complete  the  wrecking  of 
houses,  to  make  their  '’'lairs  for  slumber.  The  fires  of  the 
■’'bivouac  complete  what  the  fires  kindled  by  the  battle  have 
not  consumed.  The  surviving  soldiers  march  on,  to  act  the 
same  scene -over  again,  elsewhere;  and  the  remnant  of  the 


244 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


scattered  inhabitants  return,  to  find  the  mangled  bodies  of 
those  they  had  loved,  amid  the  blackened  ruins  of  their 
homes;  to  mourn,  with  more  than  agonizing  grief,  over  the 
missing,  of  whose  fate  they  are  uncertain ; to  feel  themselves 
bankrupts  of  the  world’s  stores,  and  look  from  their  children 
to  the  desolate  fields  and  garners,  and  think  of  famine  and 
pestilence,  '^engendered  by  the  rotting  bodies  of  the  half- 
buried  myriads  of  slain. 

4.  The  soldier  marches  on  and  on,  inflicting  and  sulferinir 
as  before.  War  is  a continuance  of  battles,  an  ‘‘'epidemic, 
striding  from  place  to  place,  more  horrible  than  the  typhus, 
pestilence,  or  cholera,  which  not  unfrequently  follow  in  its 
train.  The  siege  is  an  aggravation  of  the  battle.  The  peace- 
ful inhabitants  of  the  ‘‘'beleaguered  town  are  cooped  up,  and 
can  not  fly  the  place  of  conflict.  The  mutual  injuries,  in- 
flicted by  ‘‘'assailants  and  assailed,  are  ‘‘'aggravated ; their  wrath 
is  more  frenzied ; then  come  the  storm  and  the  capture,  and 
the  riot  and  excesses  of  the  victor  soldiery,  striving  to  quench 
the  drunkenness  of  blood  in  the  drunkenness  of  wine. 

5.  The  ‘‘'eccentric  movements  of  war,  the  marching  and 
counter-marching,  often  repeat  the  blow  on  districts,  slowly 
recovering  from  the  first.  Between  destruction  and  the 
wasteful  consumption  of  the  soldiery,  poverty  pervades  the 
land.  Hopeless  of  the  future,  hardened  by  the  scenes  of 
which  he  is  a daily  witness,  perhaps  goaded  by  revenge,  the 
peasant  becomes  a plunderer  and  assassin.  The  families  of 
the  upper  classes  are  ‘‘'dispersed ; the  discipline  of  the  family 
circle  is  removed  ; a habit  of  living  in  the  day,  for  the  day, 
of  drowning  the  morrow  in  transient  and  ‘‘'illicit  pleasure,  is 
‘‘'engendered.  The  waste  and  desolation  which  a battle 
spreads  over  the  battle-field,  is  as  nothing,  when  compared 
with  the  moral  desolation  which  war  diffuses  through  all  ranks 
of  society,  in  the  country  which  is  the  scene  of  war. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


245 


XCIII.— THE  PHILOSOPHER’S  SCALES. 

From  Jane  Taylor. 

1.  A MONK,  when  his  rites  '^sacerdotal  were  o’er, 

In  the  depth  of  his  cell  with  his  stone-covered  floor. 
Resigning  to  thought  his  '•'chimerical  brain, 

Once  formed  the  contrivance  we  now  shall  explain; 

But  whether  by  magic’s  or  '•'alchemy’s  powers. 

We  know  not;  indeed,  ’tis  no  business  of  ours. 

2.  Perhaps  it  was  only  by  patience  and  care. 

At  last,  that  he  brought  his  invention  to  bear; 

In  youth  ’twas  '•'projected,  but  years  stole  away. 

And  ere  ’twas  complete,  he  was  wrinkled  and  gray; 

But  success  is  secure,  unless  energy  fails ; 

And,  at  length,  he  produced  the  philosopher’s  scales. 

3.  “What  were  they?”  you  ask.  You  shall  presently  see, 
These  scales  were  not  made  to  weigh  sugar  and  tea ; 

O no ; for  such  '•'properties  wondrous  had  they. 

That  qualities,  feelings,  and  thoughts,  they  could  weigh; 
Together  with  articles  small  or  immense. 

From  mountains  or  planets,  to  ■•■  atoms  of  sense. 

4 Naught  was  there  so  bulky,  but  there  it  would  lay, 

And  naught  so  '•'ethereal,  but  there  it  would  stay, 

And  naught  so  '•'reluctant,  but  in  it  must  go : 

All  which  some  examples  more  clearly  will  show. 

5 The  first  thing  he  weighed  was  the  head  of  Voltaire, 
Which  retained  all  the  wit  that  had  ever  been  there; 

As  a weight  he  threw  in  a torn  scrap  of  a leaf, 
Containing  the  prayer  of  the  '•'penitent  thief; 

When  the  skull  rose  aloft  with  so  sudden  a spell, 

That  it  bounced  like  a ball  on  the  roof  of  the  cell. 

6 One  time,  he  put  in  Alexander  the  Great, 

With  a garment  that  Dorcas  had  made,  for  a weight. 
And,  though  '•'clad  in  armor  from  '•'sandals  to  crown, 

The  hero  rose  up,  and  the  garment  went  down. 

1 A long  row  of  alms-houses,  amply  '•'endowed 
By  a well-esteemed  '•'Pharisee,  busy  and  proud. 

Next  loaded  one  scale;  while  the  other  was  prest 
By  those  mites  the  poor  widow  dropped  into  the  chest, 
Up  flew  the  '•'endowment,  not  weighing  an  ounce. 

And  down,  down  the  farthing-worth  came  with  a bounce. 
a* 


246 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


8.  By  further  ^experiments,  (no  matter  how,) 

He  found  that  ten  chariots  weighed  less  than  one  plow; 
A sword  with  gilt  trapping  rose  up  in  the  scale, 

Though  balanced  by  only  a ten-penny  nail ; 

A shield  and  a helmet,  a buckler  and  spear, 

Weighed  less  than  a widow’s  '^uncrystalized  tear. 

9.  A lord  and  a lady  went  up  at  full  sail. 

When  a bee  chanced  to  light  on  the  opposite  scale ; 

Ten  doctors,  ten  lawyers,  two  courtiers,  one  earl, 

Ten  counselors’  wigs,  full  of  powder  and  curl, 

All  heaped  in  one  balance  and  swinging  from  thence. 
Weighed  less  than  a few  grains  of  '^'candor  and  sense; 

10.  A first  water  '^'diamond,  with  ^brilliants  begirt. 

Than  one  good  potato,  just  washed  from  the  dirt; 

Yet  not  mountains  of  silver  and  gold  could  suffice, 

One  pearl  to  outweigh,  ’twas  the  pearl  of  great  price. 

1 1.  Last  of  all,  the  whole  world  was  bowled  in  at  the  grate, 
With  the  soul  of  a beggar  to  serve  for  a weight, 

When  the  former  sprang  up  with  so  strong  a '^'rebuff. 
That  it  made  a vast  rent  and  escaped  at  the  roof; 

When,  balanced  in  air,  it  ascended  on  high. 

And  sailed  up  aloft,  a balloon  in  the  sky; 

While  the  scale  with  the  soul  in’t  so  mightily  fell. 

That  it  jerked  the  ‘‘'philosopher  out  of  his  cell. 


XCIV.— ORIGIN  OF  PROPERTY. 

From  Blackstone. 

1.  In  the  beginning  of  the  world,  we  are  informed  by 
Holy  Writ,  the  all-bountiful  Creator  gave  to  man  “dominion 
over  all  the  earth,  and  over  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  and  over 
the  fowl  of  ihe  air,  and  over  every  living  thing  that  moved 
upon  the  earth. This  is  the  only  true  and  solid  foundation 
of  man’s  dominion  over  external  things,  whatever  airy,  '‘'meta- 
physical notions  may  have  been  started  by  fanciful  writers 
on  this  subject.  The  earth,  therefore,  and  all  things  therein, 
are  the  general  property  of  mankind,  '‘‘exclusive  of  other 
beings,  from  the  immediate  gift  of  the  Creator.  And  while 
the  earth  continued  bare  of  inhabitants,  it  is  reasonable  to 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


247 


suppose  that  all  was  in  common  among  them,  and  that  every 
one  took  from  the  public  stock,  to  his  own  use,  such  things 
as  his  immediate  necessities  required. 

2.  These  general  notions  of  property  were  then  sufficient 
to  answer  all  purposes  of  human  life;  and  might,  perhaps, 
still  have  answered  them,  had  it  been  possible  for  mankind 
to  have  remained  in  a state  of  '^'primeval  simplicity,  in  which 
‘‘all  thinsrs  were  common  to  him.”  Not  that  this  communion 

O 

of  goods  seems  ever  to  have  been  applicable,  even  in  the  ear- 
liest stages,  to  aught  but  the  substance  of  the  thing;  nor 
could  it  be  extended  to  the  use  of  it.  For,  by  the  law  of 
nature  and  reason,  he  who  first  began  to  use  it,  acquired 
therein,  a kind  of  "^transient  property,  that  lasted  so  long  as 
he  was  using  it,  and  no  longer.  Or,  to  speak  with  greater 
■^'precision,  the  right  of  possession  continued  for  the  same  time, 
only,  that  the  act  of  possession  lasted. 

3.  Thus,  the  ground  was  in  common,  and  no  part  of  it 
was  the  property  of  any  man  in  particular ; yet,  whoever  was 
in  the  occupation  of  any  determined  spot  of  it,  for  rest,  for 
shade,  or  the  like,  acquired  for  the  time,  a sort  of  ownership, 
from  which,  it  would  have  been  unjust  and  contrary  to  the 
law  of  nature,  to  have  driven  him  by  force ; but,  the  instant 
he  quitted  the  use  or  occupation  of  it,  another  might  seize  it 
without  injustice.  Thus,  also,  a vine  or  a tree  might  be  said 
to  be  in  common,  as  all  men  were  equally  entitled  to  its 
produce ; and  yet,  any  private  individual  might  gain  the  sole 
property  of  the  fruit  which  he  had  gathered  for  his  own 
repast:  a doctrine  well  illustrated  by  Cicero,  who  compares 
the  world  to  a great  theater  which  is  common  to  the  public, 
and  yet  the  place  which  any  man  has  taken,  is,  for  the  time, 
his  own. 

4.  But  when  mankind  increased  in  number,  '^'craft,  and 
ambition,  it  became  necessary  to  entertain  ‘^'conceptions  of  a 
more  permanent  dominion;  and  to  '^'appropriate  to  individu- 
als, not  the  immediate  use  only,  but  the  very  substance  of  the 
thing  to  be  used.  Otherwise,  innumerable  tumults  must  have 
arisen,  and  the  good  order  of  the  world  been  continually 
broken  and  dist  irbed,  while  a variety  of  persons  were  striving 
who  should  get  vhe  first  occupation  of  the  same  thing,  or  dis- 
puting which,  of  them  had  actually  gained  it.  As  human,  life 


248 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


grew  more  and  more  refined,  many  conveniences  were  devised 
to  render,  it  more  easy,  commodious,  and  agreeable ; as  habi- 
tations for  shelter  and  safety,  and  raiment  for  warmth  and 
decency.  But  no  man  would  be  at  the  trouble  to  provide 
either,  so  long  as  he  had  only  an  "^usufructuary  property  in 
them,  which  was  to  cease  the  instant  that  he  quitted  posses- 
sion ; if,  as  soon  as  he  walked  out  of  his  tent  or  pulled  off  his 
garment,  the  next  stranger  who  came  by  would  have  a right 
to  inhabit  the  one  and  to  wear  the  other. 

5.  In  the  case  of  habitations,  in  particular,  it  was  natural 
to  observe  that  even  the  brute  creation,  to  whom  every  thing 
else  was  in  common,  maintained  a kind  of  permanent  property 
in  their  dwellings,  especially  for  the  protection  of  their  young; 
that  the  birds  of  the  air  had  nests,  and  the  beasts  of  the  fields 
had  caverns,  the  invasion  of  which  they  esteemed  a very 
'^'flagrant  injustice,  and  in  the  preservation  of  which,  they 
would  sacrifice  their  lives.  Hence  a j)roperty  was  soon  estab- 
lished in  every  man’s  house  and  '^'homestead  ; which  seem  to 
have  been  originally  mere  temporary  huts  or  movable  cabins, 
suited  to  the  design  of  Providence  for  more  speedily  peopling 
the  earth,  and  to  the  wandering  life  of  their  owners,  before 
any  extensive  property  in  the  soil  or  ground  was  established. 

6.  There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that  movables  of  every  kind 
became  sooner  appropriated  than  the  '^'permanent,  substantial 
soil;  partly  because  they  were  more  "‘"susceptible  of  a long 
occupancy,  which  might  be  continued  for  months  together, 
without  any  sensible  interruption,  and  at  length,  by  usage, 
ripen  into  an  established  right;  but,  principally,  because  few 
of  them  could  be  fit  for  use,  till  improved  and  "‘"meliorated 
by  the  bodily  labor  of  the  occupant;  which  bodily  labor, 
bestowed  upon  any  subject  that  lay  in  common  to  all  men,  is 
universally  allowed  to  give  the  fairest  and  most  reasonable 
title  to  an  exclusive  property  therein. 

7.  The  article  of  food  was  a more  immediate  call,  and 
therefore  a more  early  consideration.  Such  as  were  not  con- 
tented with  the  "‘"spontaneous  products  of  the  earth,  sought  for 
a more  solid  refreshment  in  the  flesh  of  beasts,  which  they 
obtained  by  hunting.  But  the  frequent  disappointments 
incident  to  that  method  of  provision,  induced  them  to  gather 
logqther  such  animals  as  were  of  a more  tame  and  "‘"sequacious 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


249 


nature,  and  to  establish  a more  permanent  property  in  their 
flocks  and  herds,  in  order  to  sustain  themselves  in  a less  '^'pre- 
carious  manner,  partly  by  the  milk  of  the  dams,  and  partly 
by  the  flesh  of  the  young. 

8.  The  support  of  these  their  cattle,  made  the  article  of 
water  also  a very  important  point.  And,  therefore,  the  book 
of  Genesis,  (the  most  venerable  monument  of  '^antiquity, 
considered  merely  with  a view  to  history,)  will  furnish  us  with 
frequent  instances  of  violent  contentions  concerning  wells ; the 
exclusive  property  of  which  appears  to  have  been  established 
in  the  first  digger  or  occupant,  even  in  places  where  the 
ground  and  '•'herbage  remained  yet  in  common.  Thus,  we 
find  Abraham,  who  was  but  a sojourner,  asserting  his  right 
to  a well  in  the  country  of  Abimelech,  and  exacting  an  oath 
for  security,  “because  he  had  digged  that  well.”  And  Isaac, 
about  ninety  years  afterward,  reclaimed  this  his  father’s  prop- 
erty; and,  after  much  contention  with  the  Philistines,  was 
sufiered  to  enjoy  it  in  peace. 

9.  All  this  while,  the  soil  and  pasture  of  the  earth,  re- 
mained still  in  common  as  before,  and  open  to  every  occupant; 
except,  perhaps,  in  the  neighborhood  of  towns,  where  the 
necessity  of  a sole  and  exclusive  property  in  lands,  (for  the 
sake  of  agriculture,)  was  earlier  felt,  and  therefore  more 
readily  complied  with.  Otherwise,  when  the  multitude  of 
men  and  cattle  had  consumed  every  convenience  on  one  spot 
of  ground,  it  was  deemed  a natural  right  to  seize  upon,  and 
occupy  such  other  lands,  as  would  more  easily  supply  their 
necessities. 

10.  We  have  a striking  example  of  this,  in  the  history  of 
Abraham  and  his  nephew  Lot.  When  their  joint  substance 
became  so  great,  that  pasture  and  other  conveniences  grew 
scarce,  the  natural  consequence  was,  that  a strife  arose  be- 
tween their  servants ; so  that  it  was  no  longer  '•'practicable  to 
dwell  together.  This  contention,  Abraham  thus  endeavored 
to  compose : “ Let  there  be  no  strife,  I pray  thee,  between  me 
and  thee.  Is  not  the  whole  land  before  thee  ? Separate  thy- 
self, I pray  thee,  from  me.  If  thou  wilt  take  the  left  hand, 
then  I will  go  to  the  right;  or  if  thou  depart  to  the  right 
hand,  then  I will  go  to  the  left.”  This  plainly  implies  an 
acknowledged  right  in  either,  to  occupy  whatever  ground  he 


250 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


pleased,  that  was  not  preoccupied  by  other  tribes.  “And 
Lot  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  beheld  all  the  plain  of  Jordan, 
that  it  was  well  watered  every-where,  even  as  the  garden  of 
the  Lord.  Then  Lot  chose  him  all  the  plain  of  Jordan,  and 
journeyed  east;  and  Abraham  dwelt  in  the  land  of  Canaan.” 

11.  As  the  world  grew  by  degrees  more  populous,  it  daily 
became  more  difficult  to  find  out  new  spots  to  inhabit,  without 
encroaching  upon  former  occupants ; and,  by  constantly  occu- 
pying the  same  individual  spot,  the  fruits  of  the  earth  were 
consumed,  and  its  spontaneous  products  destroyed,  without 
any  provision  for  future  supply  or  succession.  It,  therefore, 
became  necessary  to  pursue  some  regular  method  of  providing 
a constant  subsistence ; and  this  necessity  produced,  or  at 
least  promoted  and  encouraged  the  art  of  agriculture.  And 
the  art  of  agriculture,  by  a regular  connection  and  conse- 
quence, introduced  and  e-stablished  the  idea  of  a more  per- 
manent property  in  the  soil,  than  had  hitherto  been  received 
and  adopted. 

12.  It  was  clear  that  the  earth  would  not  produce  her 
fruits  in  sufficient  quantities,  without  the  assistance  of  "^till- 
age; but  who  would  be  at  the  pains  of  tilling  it,  if  another 
might  watch  an  opportunity  to  seize  upon  and  enjoy  the 
product  of  his  industry,  art,  and  labor?  Had  not,  therefore, 
a separate  property  in  lands,  as  well  as  movables,  been  vested 
in  some  individuals,  the  world  must  have  continued  a forest, 
and  men  have  been  mere  animals  of  prey.  Whereas,  now, 
(so  graciously  has  Providence  interw^oven  our  duty  and  our 
happiness  together,)  the  result  of  this  very  necessity  has  been 
the  ennobling  of  the  human  species,  by  giving  it  opportunities 
of  improving  its  rational^  as  well  as  of  exerting  its  natural 
faculties. 

13.  Necessity  begat  property;  and,  in  order  to  insure  that 
property,  recourse  was  had  to  civil  society,  which  brought 
along  with  it  a long  train  of  inseparable  '•'concomitants; 
states,  government,  laws,  punishments,  and  the  public  exer- 
cise of  religious  duties.  Thus  connected  together,  it  was 
found  that  a part  only  of  society  was  sufficient  to  provide,  by 
their  manual  labor,  for  the  necessary  subsistence  of  all;  and 
leisure  was  given  to  others  to  cultivate  the  human  mind,  to 
invent  useful  arts,  and  to  lay  the  foundations  of  science. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


251 


xcv.— BRITISH  REFUGEES. 

From  Patrick  Henry. 

Extract  from  a speech  delivered  in  the  Legislature  of  Virginia,  in 
favor  of  permitting  the  British  ^refugees,  or  those  who  had  joined  the 
English  party  in  the  war  of  Independence,  to  return  to  the  United 
States. 

1.  We  have,  Mr.  Chairman,  an  extensive  country  without 
population.  What  can  be  a more  obvious  policy,  than  that 
this  country  ought  to  be  peopled?  People  form  the  strength 
and  constitute  the  wealth  of  a nation.  I want  to  see  our 
va«it  forests  filled  up,  by  some  process  ‘a  little  more  speedy 
than  the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  I wish  to  see  these 
states  rapidly  ascending  to  that  rank,  which  their  natural 
advantages  authorize  them  to  hold  among  the  nations  of  the 
earth.  Cast  your  eyes  over  this  extensive  country.  Observe 
the  '^'salubrity  of  your  climate ; the  variety  and  fertility  of 
your  soil;  and  see  that  soil  intersected  in  every  quarter,  by 
bold,  navigable  streams,  flowing  to  the  east  and  to  the  west, 
as  if  the  finger  of  heaven  were  marking  out  the  course  of  your 
settlements,  inviting  you  to  enterprise,  and  pointing  the  way 
to  wealth. 

2.  Sir,  you  are  destined,  at  some  period  or  other,  to  be- 
come a great  agricultural  and  '‘'commercial  people : the  only 
question  is,  whether  you  choose  to  reach  this  point  by  slow 
'‘'gradations,  and  at  some  distant  period,  lingering  on  through 
a long  and  sickly  '‘'minority,  subjected  meanwhile  to  the 
machinations,  insults,  and  oppression  of  enemies,  foreign  and 
domestic,  without  sufficient  strength  to  resist  and  chastise 
them;  or  whether  you  choose  rather  to  rush  at  once,  as  it 
were,  to  the  full  enjoyment  of  those  high  destinies,  and  be 
able  to '‘'cope,  single-handed,  with  the  proudest '‘'oppressor  of 
the  world. 

3.  If  you  prefer  the  latter  course,  as  I trust  you  do, 
encourage  '‘'emigration ; encourage  the  husbandmen,  the  me- 
chanics, the  merchants  of  the  old  world  to  come  and  settle  in 
the  land  of  promise.  Make  it  the  home  of  the  skillful,  the 
fortunate,  and  the  happy,  as  well  as  the  '‘'asylum  of  the  dis- 
tressed. Fill  up  the  measure  of  your  population  as  speedily 
as  you  can,  by  the  means  which  Heaven  has  placed  in  your 


252 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


power ; and  I venture  to  prophesy  there  are  now  those  living, 
who  will  see  this  favored  land  among  the  most  powerful  on 
earth ; able  to  take  care  of  herself,  without  resorting  to  that 
policy  so  dangerous,  though  sometimes  unavoidable,  of  calling 
in  foreign  aid.  Yes,  they  will  see  her  great  in  arts  and  in 
arms;  her  golden  harvests  waving  over  fields  of  immeasur- 
able extent;  her  commerce  '^'penetrating  the  most  distant 
seas ; and  her  cannon  silencing  the  vain  boast  of  those  who 
now  proudly  affect  to  rule  the  waves. 

4.  Instead  of  refusing  permission  to  the  refugees  to  return, 
it  is  your  true  policy  to  encourage  '♦'emigration  to  this  coun- 
try,  by  every  means  in  your  power.  Sir,  you  must  have  men. 
You  can  not  get  along  without  them.  Those  heavy  forests  of 
timber,  under  which  your  lands  are  groaning,  must  be  cleared 
away.  Those  vast  riches  which  cover  the  face  of  your  soil, 
as  well  as  those  which  lie  hid  in  its  bosom,  are  to  be  de- 
veloped and  gathered  only  by  the  skill  and  enterprise  of  men. 
Your  timber  must  be  worked  up  into  ships,  to  '•'transport  the 
productions  of  the  soil,  and  find  the  best  markets  for  them 
abroad.  Your  great  want  is  the  want  of  men;  and  these  you 
must  have^  and  will  have  speedily,  if  you  are  wise. 

5.  Do  you  ask,  how  you  are  to  get  them?  Open  your 
doors,  sir,  and  they  will  come.  The  population  of  the  old 
world  is  full  to  overflowing.  That  population  is  ground,  too, 
by  the  oppressions  of  the  governments  under  which  they  live. 
They  are  already  standing  on  tiptoe  upon  their  native  shores, 
and  looking  to  your  coasts  with  a wishful  and  longing  eye. 
They  see  here  a land  blessed  with  natural  and  '♦'political 
advantages,  which  are  not  equaled  by  those  of  any  other 
country  on  earth;  a land,  on  which  a gracious  Providence 
hath  emptied  the  horn  of  abundance;  a land,  over  which 
peace  hath  now  stretched  forth  her  white  wings,  and  where 
content  and  plenty  lie  down  at  every  door. 

6.  They  see  something  still  more  '♦'attractive  than  this. 
They  see  a land  in  which  Liberty  has  taken  up  her  abode; 
that  Liberty  whom  they  had  considered  a fabled  goddess,  ex- 
isting onfy  in  the  fancies  of  the  poets.  They  see  her  here, 
a real  '♦'divinity ; her  altars  rising  on  every  hand,  throughout 
these  happy  states ; her  glories  '•'chanted  by  three  millions  of 
tongues;  and  the  ’^hole  regiop  smiling  imder  her  blessed 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


258 


influeDce.  Let  but  this  '‘'celestial  goddess,  Liberty,  stretch 
forth  her  fair  hand  toward  the  people  of  the  old  world,  tell 
them  to  come  and  bid  them  welcome ; and  you  will  see  them 
pouring  in  from  the  north,  from  the  south,  from  the  east,  and 
from  the  west.  Your  wilderness  will  be  cleared  and  settled; 
your  deserts  will  smile ; your  ranks  will  be  filled  ; and  you  will 
soon  be  in  a condition  to  defy  the  powers  of  any  adversary. 

7.  But  gentlemen  object  to  any  '‘'accession  from  Great 
Britain,  and  particularly  to  the  return  of  the  British  refugees. 
Sir,  I feel  no  objection  to  the  return  of  those  deluded  peo- 
ple. They  have,  to  be  sure,  mistaken  their  own  interests 
most  wonderfully,  and  most  wofully  have  they  suffered  the 
punishment  due  to  their  offenses.  But  the  relations  which 
we  bear  to  them  and  to  their  native  country,  are  now  changed. 
Their  king  has  acknowledged  our  '‘'independence.  The  quarrel 
is  over.  Peace  has  returned,  and  found  us  a free  people. 

8.  Let  us  have  the  magnanimity  to  lay  aside  our  '‘'antipa- 
thies and  prejudices,  and  consider  the  subject  in  a political 
light.  They  are  an  enterprising,  moneyed  people.  They 
will  be  serviceable  in  taking  off  the  surplus  produce  of  our 
lands,  and  supplying  us  with  necessaries  during  the  infant 
state  of  our  '‘'manufactures.  Even  if  they  be  '‘'inimical  to  us, 
in  point  of  feeling  and  principle,  I can  see  no  objection,  in  a 
political  view,  to  making  them  '‘'tributary  to  our  advantage. 
And  as  I have  no  prejudices  to  prevent  my  making  use  of 
them,  so  I have  no  fear  of  any  mischief  they  can  do  us. 
Afraid  of  them!  What,  sir,  shall  we^  who  have  laid  the 
proud  British  lion  at  our  feet,  now  be  afraid  of  his  lohelpsf 


CXVL— ANTONY  OVER  CESAR’S  DEAD  BODY. 
From  Shakspeare. 

Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears; 
I come  to  bury  CaBsar,  not  to  praise  him. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them; 

The  good  is  often  '‘'interrM  with  their  bones; 

So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.  The  noble  Brutus 
Hath  told  you,  Caesar  was  ambitious: 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  a grievous  fault. 

And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answered  it. 


2^4 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest — 

For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man; 

So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men — 

Come  I to  speak  on  Caesar’s  funeral. 

He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me; 

But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious; 

And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 

He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 
Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  '^'coffers  fill: 

Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious? 

When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept; 
Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff; 

Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious; 

And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 

You  all  did  see,  that  on  the  Lupercal, 

1 thrice  presented  him  a kingly  crown, 

Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.  Was  this  ambition? 
Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious ; 

And,  sure,  he  is  an  honorable  man. 

T speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke, 

But  here  I am  to  speak  what  I do  know. 

You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause; 

What  cause  withholds  you  then,  to  mourn  for  him  ? 
O judgment!  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts. 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason.  Bear  with  me; 
My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 

And  I must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

But  yesterday  the  word  of  Caesar  might 
Have  stood  against  the  world;  now  lies  he  there, 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  "treverence. 

0 masters!  if  1 were  disposed  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1 should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 

Who,  you  all  know,  are  honorable  men: 

1 will  not  do  them  wrong : I rather  choose 
To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself  and  you, 

Than  I will  wrong  such  honorable  men. 

But  here  ’s  a '^'parchment  with  the  seal  of  Caesar; 

I found  it  in  his  closet,  ’t  is  his  will; 

Let  but  the  Commons  hear  this  '’’testament — 

Which,  pardon  me,  I do  not  mean  to  read — 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar’s  wounds 
And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood ; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


255 


Yea,  beg  a hair  of  him  for  memory, 

And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 

■’'Bequeathing  it  as  a rich  '’'legacy 
(Into  their  issue. 

One  of  the  people.  We’ll  hear  the  will:  read  it. 

AIL  The  will,  the  will;  we  will  hear  Caesar’s  will. 
Ant.  Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I must  not  read  it 
It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  loved  you. 

You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men ; 

And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 

It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad; 

’Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs; 

For,  if  you  should,  O,  what  would  come  of  it! 

Citizen.  Read  the  will;  we  will  hear  it,  Antony; 

You  shall  read  us  the  will,  Caesar’s  will. 

Ant.  Will  you  be  patient  ? Will  you  stay  awhile  ? 

I have  o’ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it: 

1 fear  I wrong  the  honorable  men 
Whose  daggers  have  stabbed  Caesar.  1 do  fear  it. 
Citizen.  They  were  traitors : honorable  men  ? 

All.  The  will!  the  testament! 

Ant.  You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the  will  ? 
Then  make  a ring  about  the  corpse  of  Caesar, 

And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 

[^He  comes  down  from  the  pulpit^ 

If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 

You  all  do  know  this  mantle;  I remember 
The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on ; 

’Twas  on  a summer’s  evening,  in  his  tent; 

That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii; 

Look!  in  this  place,  ran  Cassius’  dagger  through; 

See  what  a rent  the  envious  Casca  made : 

Through  this,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed ; 

And,  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel  away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  followed  it. 

This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all; 

For,  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab. 

Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors’  arms, 

Quite  vanquished  him ; then  burst  his  mighty  heart; 
And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face. 

Great  Caesar  fell. 

O,  what  a fall  was  there,  my  countrymen  I 
Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down, 


256 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


While  bloody  treason  flourished  over  us. 

O,  now  you  weep;  and  I perceive  you  feel 
The  +dint  of  pity.  These  are  gracious  drops. 

Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 
Our  Caesar’s  "^vesture  wounded?  Look  you  here, 

Here  is  himself,  '•'marred,  as  you  see,  by  traitors. 

1^^  Citizen.  0 piteous  spectacle! 

2d  Oit  0 noble  Caesar! 

Zd  Cit  We  will  be  revenged!  Revenge!  About!  Seek! 

Burn!  Fire!  Kill!  Slay!  Let  not  a traitor  live. 

Ant.  Stay,  countrymen. 

Cit.  Peace  there!  hear  the  noble  Antony.  [him. 

2d  Cit.  We’ll  hear  him,  we’ll  follow  him,  we’ll  die  with 
Ant.  Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir  you  up 
To  such  a sudden  flood  of  '•'mutiny. 

They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honorable ; 

What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas,  I know  not. 

That  made  them  do  it;  they  are  wise  and  honorable. 

And  will,  rto  doubt,  with  reason  answer  you. 

I come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts; 

1 am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is  ; 

But  as  you  know  me  all,  a plain,  blunt  man. 

That  love  my  friend ; and  that  they  know  full  well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him : 

For  I have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 

■I’ Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech, 

To  stir  men’s  blood:  I only  speak  right  on: 

T tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know ; 

Show  you  sweet  CsBsar’s  wounds,  poor,  poor,  dumb  mouths, 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me.  But  were  I Brutus, 

And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  '•'ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Cmsar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 


XCVII.— THE  DISCONTENTED  PENDULUM. 

From  Jane  Taylor. 

1.  An  old  clock,  that  had  stood  for  fifty  years  in  a farm- 
er’s kitchen,  without  giving  its  owner  any  cause  of  com- 
plaint, early  one  summer’s  morning,  before  the  family  was 
stirring,  suddenly  stopped.  Upon  this,  the  dial-plate  (if  we 
may  credit  the  fable)  changed  countenance  with  alarm;  the 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


257 


hands  made  a vain  effort  to  continue  their  course ; the  wheels 
remained  motionless  with  surprise ; the  weights  hung  speech- 
less; and  each  member  felt  disposed  to  lay  the  blame  on  the 
others.  At  length  the  dial  instituted  a formal  inquiry  as  to 
the  cause  of  the  '‘'stagnation ; when  hands,  wheels,  weights, 
with  one  voice,  protested  their  innocence. 

2.  But  now,  a faint  tick  was  heard  below,  from  the  '•'pendu- 
lum, who  thus  spoke : “ I confess  myself  to  be  the  sole  cause 
of  the  present  stoppage;  and  I am  willing  for  the  general 
■•'satisfaction,  to  assign  my  reasons.  The  truth  is,  that  I am 
tired  of  ticking.”  Upon  hearing  this,  the  old  clock  became 
so  enraged,  that  it  was  on  the  very  point  of  striking.  “ Lazy 
wire!”  exclaimed  the  dial-plate,  holding  up  its  hands. 
“Very  good!  ” replied  the  pendulum;  “It  is  vastly  easy  for 
you.  Mistress  Dial,  who  have  always,  as  every  body  knows, 
set  yourself  up  above  me,  it  is  vastly  easy  for  you,  I say,  to 
accuse  other  people  of  laziness ! you,  who  have  had  nothing 
to  do,  all  your  life,  but  to  stare  people  in  the  face,  and  to 
amuse  yourself  with  watching  all  that  goes  on  in  the  kitchen. 
Think,  I beseech  you,  how  you  would  like  to  be  shut  up  for 
life  in  this  dark  closet,  and  to  wag  backward  and  forward, 
year  after  year,  as  I do.” 

3.  “As  to  that,”  said  the  dial,  “is  there  not  a window  in 
your  house,  on  purpose  for  you  to  look  through?”  “For  all 
that,”  resumed  the  pendulum,  “it  is  very  dark  here;  and, 
although  there  is  a window,  I dare  not  stop  even  for  an 
instant,  to  look  out  at  it.  Besides,  I am  really  tired  of  my 
way  of  life ; and  if  you  wish,  I ’ll  tell  you  how  I took  this 
disgust  at  my  employment.  I happened,  this  morning,  to  be 
'•'calculating,  how  many  times  I should  have  to  tick  in  the 
course  of  only  the  next  twenty-four  hours ; perhaps  some  one 
of  you,  above  there,  can  give  me  the  exact  sum.” 

4.  The  minute  hand  being  quick  at  figures,  presently 
replied,  “Eighty-six  thousand,  four  hundred  times.”  “ Ex- 
aetly  so,”  replied  the  pendulum.  “Well,  I '•'appeal  to  you 
all,  if  the  very  thought  of  this  was  not  enough  to  fatigue  any 
one;  and  when  I began  to  multiply  the  strokes  of  one  day 
by  those  of  months  and  years,  really  it  is  no  wonder  if  I felt 
discouraged  at  the  prospect.  So,  after  a great  deal  of  reason- 
ing and  hesitation,  thinks  I to  myself,  I ’ll  stop.” 


258 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


5.  The  dial  could  scarcely  keep  its  countenance  during 
this  ■•'harangue ; but  resuming  its  gravity,  thus  replied : 
“Dear  Mr.  Pendulum,  I am  really  astonished  that  such  a 
useful,  industrious  person  as  yourself,  should  have  been 
seized  by  this  sudden  weariness.  It  is  true,  you  have  done 
a great  deal  of  work  in  your  time;  so  have  we  all,  and  are 
likely  to  do ; which,  although  it  may  fatigue  us  to  think  of, 
the  question  is,  whether  it  will  fatigue  us  to  do.  Would  you 
now  do  me  the  favor  to  give  about  half  a dozen  strokes,  to 
'•'illustrate  my  argument?” 

6.  The  pendulum  complied,  and  ticked  six  times  at  its 
usual  pace.  “Now,”  resumed  the  dial,  “may  I be  allowed  to 
inquire  if  that  '•'exertion  is  at  all  fatiguing  or  disagreeable  to 
you?”  “Not  in  the  least,”  replied  the  pendulum;  “it  is  not 
of  six  strokes  that  I complain,  nor  of  sixty,  but  of  millions.^' 
“Yery  good,”  replied  the  dial;  “but  recollect  that,  although 
you  may  think  of  a million  of  strokes  in  an  instant,  you  are 
required  to  execute  but  one;  and  that,  however  often  you 
may  hereafter  have  to  swing,  a moment  will  be  always  given 
you  to  swing  in.”  “ That '•'consideration  staggers  me,  I con- 
fess,” said  the  pendulum.  “Then  I hope,”  resumed  the  dial- 
plate,  “ that  we  shall  all  return  to  our  duty  immediately ; for 
the  maids  will  lie  in  bed,  if  we  stand  idling  thus.” 

7.  Upon  this,  the  weights,  who  had  never  been  accused 
of  light  conduct,  used  all  their  influence  in  urging  him  to 
proceed : when,  as  if  with  one  consent,  the  wheels  began  to 
turn,  the  hands  began  to  move,  the  pendulum  began  to  swing, 
and,  to  its  credit,  ticked  as  loud  as  ever ; while  a red  beam  of 
the  rising  sun,  that  streamed  through  a hole  in  the  kitchen, 
shining  full  upon  the  dial -plate,  it  brightened  up  as  if  noth- 
ing had  been  the  matter. 

8.  When  the  farmer  came  down  to  breakfast  that  morn- 
ing, upon  looking  at  the  clock,  he  declared  that  his  watch 
had  gained  half  an  hour  in  the  night. 

MORAL. 

9.  A celebrated  '•'modern  writer  says,  “ Take  care  of  the 
minutes^  and  the  hours  will  take  care  of  themselves.”  This 
is  an  admirable  remark,  and  might  be  very  seasonably  recol- 
lected, when  we  begin  to  be  “weary  in  well-doing,”  from  th^ 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


259 


thought  of  having  too  much  to  do.  The  present  moment  is 
all  we  have  to  do  with  in  any  sense ; the  past  is  '‘'irrecover- 
able,  the  future  is  uncertain ; nor  is  it  fair  to  burden  one 
moment  with  the  weight  of  the  next.  Sufficient  unto  the 
moment  is  the  trouble  thereof.  If  we  had  to  walk  a hundred 
miles,  we  still  should  have  to  step  but  one  step  at  a time ; and 
this  process  continued,  would  '^'infallibly  bring  us  to  our  jour- 
ney’s end.  Fatigue  generally  begins,  and  is  always  increased, 
by  calculating,  in  a minute,  the  exertion  of  hours. 

10.  Thus,  in  looking  forward  to  future  life,  let  us  recollect 
that  we  have  not  to  sustain  all  its  toil,  to  endure  all  its  suf- 
ferings, or  encounter  all  its  crosses,  at  once.  One  moment 
comes  laden  with  its  own  little  burdens,  then  flies,  and  is  suc- 
ceeded by  another  no  heavier  than  the  last.  If  one  could  be 
borne,  so  can  another  and  another.  Even  looking  forward  to 
a single  day,  the  spirit  may  sometimes  faint  from  an  '^'antiei- 
pation  of  the  duties,  the  labors,  the  trials  to  temper  and 
patience  that  may  be  expected.  Now  this  is  unjustly  laying 
the  burden  of  many  thousand  moments  upon  one.  Let  any 
one  resolve  always  to  do  right  now^  leaving  then  to  do  as 
it  can,  and  if  he  were  to  live  to  the  age  of  '^Methuselah,  he 
would  never  do  wrong.  But  the  common  error  is  to  resolve 
to  act  right  after  breakfast,  or  after  dinner,  or  to-morrow 
morning,  or  next  time;  but  now.^  just  now.^  this  once^  we  must 
go  on  the  same  as  ever. 

11.  It  is  easy,  for  instance,  for  the  most  ill-tempered  per- 

son to  resolve,  that  the  next  time  he  is  provoked,  he  will  not 
let  his  temper  overcome  him ; but  the  victory  would  be  to 
subdue  temper  on  the  '*'pr evocation.  If,  without  tak- 

ing up  the  burden  of  the  future,  we  would  always  make  the 
single  effort  at  the  present  moment,  while  there  would  be,  at 
any  one  time,  very  little  to  do,  yet,  by  this  simple  '‘'process, 
continued  from  day  to  day,  every  thing  would  at  last  be  done. 

12.  It  seems  easier  to  do  right  to-morrow  than  to-day, 
merely  because  we  forget,  that  when  to-morrow  comes,  then 
will  be  now.  Thus  life  passes  with  many,  with  resolutions 
for  the  future,  which  the  present  never  fulfills.  It  is  not 
thus  with  those,  who,  “ by  patient  continuance  in  well-doing, 
seek  for  glory,  honor,  and  '•'immortality.”  Day  by  day,  min- 
ute by  minute,  they  execute  the  appointed  task,  to  which  the 


260 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


requisite  measure  of  time  and  strength  is  proportioned;  and 
thus,  having  worked  while  it  is  called  day,  they  at  length, 
“rest  from  their  labors,  and  their  works  follow  them.”  Let 
us  then,  whatever  our  hands  find  to  do,  do  it  with  all  our 
might,  recollecting  that  now  is  the  proper  and  accepted  time. 


XCVIIL— THE  NOSE  AND  THE  EYES. 

From  Cowper. 

William  Cowper,  an  English  poet,  was  born  in  1731.  His  poetry  ex- 
hibits a mixture  of  playful  humor,  and  of  the  somber  melancholy  which 
darkened  the  latter  part  of  his  life.  In  beauty  and  delicacy  of  thought, 
and  in  his  high  tone  of  moral  and  religious  sentiment,  he  has  no  supe- 
rior among  English  poets.  He  died  in  1800. 

1.  Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a strange  contest  arose; 

The  spectacles  set  them,  unhappily,  wrong; 

The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 

To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

2.  So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  +argued  the  cause. 

With  a great  deal  of  skill,  and  a wig  full  of  learning; 

While  chief  baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws. 

So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  '•'discerning. 

3.  In  behalf  of  the  Nose,  it  will  quickly  appear. 

And  your  lordship,”  he  said,  “will  undoubtedly  find 
That  the  nose  has  the  spectacles  always  to  wear. 

Which  amounts  to  possession,  time  out  of  mind.” 

4.  Then,  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court, 

“ Your  lordship  observes,  they  are  made  with  a straddle 
As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is ; in  short. 

Designed  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a saddle. 

6.  “Again,  would  your  lordship  a moment  suppose, 

(’Tis  a case  that  has  happened,  and  may  happen  again,) 
That  the  '•'visage  or  countenance  had  not  a Nose^ 

Pray,  who  would^  or  who  could  wear  spectacles  then? 

6.  “On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  '•'argument  shows. 

With  a reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn. 

That  the  spectacles,  plainly,  were  made  for  the  Nose, 

And  the  Nose  was,  as  plainly,  intended  for  them.” 

7.  Then  shifting  his  side,  (as  a lawyer  knows  how,) 

He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes : 


EOLECTTC  SERIES. 


261 


But  what  were  his  arguments,  few  people  know, 

For  the  court  did  not  think  them  equally  wise. 

8.  So  his  lordship  decreed,  with  a grave,  solemn  tone. 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but^ 

That  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 

By  day-light  or  candle-light, — Eyes  should  be  shut. 


XCIX.— GRATEFUL  OLD  AGE. 

From  the  German  of  Gesner. 

1.  How  beautifully  the  dawn  shines  through  the  hazel- 
bush,  and  the  wild  roses  blossom  at  the  window!  How  joy- 
fully the  swallow  sings  on  the  rafter,  under  my  roof,  and  the 
little  lark  in  the  high  air!  Every  thing  is  cheerful,  and 
every  plant  is  revived  in  the  dew.  I also  feel  revived.  My 
staff  shall  guide  my  tottering  steps  to  the  threshold  of  my 
cottage,  and  there  will  I sit  down  facing  the  rising  sun,  and 
look  abroad  on  the  green  meadows.  How  beautiful  is  all 
around  me  here!  All  that  I hear  are  voices  of  joy  and 
thanks.  The  birds  in  the  air,  and  the  shepherds  on  the  hill, 
sing  their  delight,  and  the  flocks  from  the  grassy  slopes  and 
out  of  the  '^'variegated  valleys,  bellow  out  their  joy. 

2.  How  long,  how  long,  shall  I yet  be  a witness  of  divine 
goodness?  Ninety  times,  have  I already  seen  the  change  of 
the  seasons ; and  when  I look  back  from  the  present  hour  to 
the  time  of  my  birth, — a beautiful  and  extended  prospect 
which  at  last  is  lost  in  pure  air, — how  swells  my  heart ! The 
'^'emotion  which  my  tongue  can  not  utter,  is  it  not  rapture? 
And  are  not  these  tears,  tears  of  joy?  And  yet,  are  not  both 
too  feeble  an  expression  of  thanks  ? Ah ! flow,  ye  tears  1 
flow  down  these  cheeks. 

3.  When  I look  back,  it  seems  as  if  I had  lived  only  through 
a long  spring,  my  sorrowful  hours  being  only  short  storms, 
which  refreshed  the  fields  and  enlivened  the  plants.  Hurtful 
'^'pestilences  have  never  diminished  our  flocks';  never  has  a 
'^mischance  happened  to  our  trees,  nor  a lingering  misfortune 
rested  on  this  cottage.  I looked  out '^'enraptured  into  futurity, 
when  my  children  played  smiling  in  my  arms,  or  when  my 
hand  guided  their  tottering  footsteps.  With  tears  of  joy  1 

23 


262 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


looked  out  into  the  future,  when  I saw  these  young  sprouts 
spring  up.  “I  will  protect  them  from  mischance/’  said  I; 
“I  will  watch  over  their  growth,  and  Heaven  will  bless  my 
endeavors.  They  will  grow  up  and  bear  excellent  fruit,  and 
become  trees,  which  shall  shelter  my  declining  age  with  their 
spreading  branches.’’ 

4.  So  I spake,  and  pressed  them  to  my  heart,  and  now, 
they  have  grown  up,  full  of  blessings,  covering  my  weary  years 
with  their  refreshing  shade.  So,  the  apple-trees,  the  pear- 
trf^es,  and  the  tall  nut-trees,  planted  by  me  while  yet  a boy, 
around  my  cottage,  have  grown  up,  carrying  their  widely- 
extended  branches  high  into  the  air;  and  my  little  home 
nestles  in  their  covering  shade.  This,  this  was  my  most 
'^'vehement  grief,  O Myrta,  when  thou  didst  expire  on  my 
agitated  breast,  within  my  arms.  Spring  has  already  covered 
thy  grave,  twelve  times,  with  flowers.  But  the  day  approaches, 
a joyful  day,  when  my  bones  shall  be  laid  with  thine.  Per 
haps,  the  coming  night  conducts  it  hither.  0,  I see  with 
delight,  how  my  gray  beard  flows  down  over  my  breast.  Yes, 
play  with  the  white  hair  on  my  breast,  thou  little  '•'zephyr, 
who  '•'hoverest  about  me ! It  is  as  worthy  of  thy  '•'caresses, 
as  the  golden  hair  of  joyful  youth,  or  the  brown  curls  on 
the  neck  of  the  blooming  maiden. 

5.  This  day  shall  be  to  me  a day  of  joy!  I will  assemble 
my  children  around  me  here,  even  down  to  the  little  '•'stam 
mering  grandchild,  and  will  offer  thanksgiving  to  God ; the 
altar  shall  be  here  before  my  cottage.  I will  '•'garland  my 
bald  head,  and  my  trembling  hand  shall  take  the  lyre,  and 
then  will  we,  I and  my  children,  sing  songs  of  praise.  Then, 
will  I '•'strew  flowers  over  my  table,  and  with  joyful  '•'discourses 
partake  of  the  bounty  of  the  Most  High. 

6.  Thus  spake  Palaemon,  and  rose  trembling  upon  his  staff, 
and  having  called  his  children  together,  held  a glad  '•'festival  of 
devout  and  joyous  '•'thanksgiving  to  the  Deity. 


ECLECTTC  SERIES. 


263 


C.— THE  THREE  WARNINGS. 

From  Mrs.  Thrale. 

I The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground; 

'Twas  therefore  said  by  ancient  “^sages, 

That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  latter  stages, 

When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages. 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 

This  great  affection  to  believe. 

Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 

If  old  ■’’assertions  can  ’t  prevail, 

Be  pleased  to  hear  a modern  tale. 

2.  When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay, 
On  neighbor  Dodson’s  wedding-day; 

Death  called  aside  the  ’’’jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room; 

And  looking  grave,  “ You  must,”  says  he, 
“Quit  3^our  sweet  bride,  and  come  with  me.” 
“With  you!  and  quit  my  Susan’s  side? 

With  you  I ” the  hapless  bridegroom  cried  : 
“Young  as  I am,  ’tis  monstrous  hard! 
Besides,  in  truth,  I’m  not  prepared.” 

3.  What  more  he  urged,  I have  not  heard; 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger: 

So  Death  the  poor  ’’’delinquent  spared, 

And  left  to  live  a little  longer. 

Yet  calling  up  a serious  look. 

His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke; 
“Neighbor,”  he  said,  “farewell!  no  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  ’’’mirthful  hour; 
And  further,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name. 

To  give  you  time  for  ’’’preparation. 

And  fit  you  for  your  future  station, 

Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have, 
Before  you’re  summoned  to  the  grave: 
Willing  for  once  I’ll  quit  my  prey, 

And  grant  a kind  ’♦'reprieve; 

In  hopes  you’ll  have  no  more  to  say, 


‘^64 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


But,  when  1 call  again  this  way, 

Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave.” 

To  these  '^conditions  both  consented, 

And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

4.  What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell, 

How  long  he  lived,  how  wisely,  and  how  well, 
It  boots  not  that  the  muse  should  tell; 

He  plowed,  he  sowed,  he  bought,  he  sold, 

Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old. 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near ; 

His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  "^shrew. 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few. 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 

But,  while  he  viewed  his  wealth  increase. 
While  thus  along  life’s  dusty  road. 

The  beaten  track,  content  he  trod. 

Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares. 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  '•'unawares. 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 

5.  And  noAV,  one  night,  in  musing  mood 

As  all  alone  he  sate. 

The  unwelcome  messenger  of  Fate 
Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half-killed  with  wonder  and  surprise, 

“So  soon  returned!”  old  Dodson  cries. 

“So  soon  d’ye  call  it?”  Death  replies: 
“Surely,  my  friend,  you’re  but  in  jest; 

Since  I was  here  before, 

’T  is  six  and  thirty  years  at  least. 

And  you  are  now  fourscore.” 

“So  much  the  worse  I”  the  clown  '•'rejoined; 

“ To  spare  the  ag^d  would  be  kind : 

Besides,  you  promised  me  three  warnings^ 
Which  I have  looked  for  nights  and  mornings! 

6 “I  know,”  cfies  Death,  “that  at  the  best, 

I seldom  am  a welcome  guest; 

But  don’t  be  '•'captious,  friend;  at  least, 

1 little  thought  that  you’d  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable; 

Your  years  have  run  to  a great  length, 

Yet  still  you  seem  to  have  your  strength.” 

7.  “Hold!”  says  the  farmer,  “not  so  fast! 

1 have  been  lame,  these  four  years  past” 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


265 


“And  no  great  wonder/’  Death  replies; 
“However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes; 

And  surely,  sir,  to  see  one’s  friends, 

For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends. 
“Perhaps,”  says  Dodson,  “so  it  might, 

But  latterly  I’ve  lost  my  sight.” 

“This  is  a shocking  story,  faith; 

But  there’s  some  comfort  still,”  says  Death; 
“Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse; 

I warrant  you  hear  all  the  news.” 

“There’s  none,”  cries  he,  “and  if  there  were, 
I ’ve  grown  so  deaf,  I could  not  hear.” 

8.  “Nay,  then,”  the  '•'specter  stern  rejoined, 
“These  are  unpardonable  '•'yearnings; 

If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind, 

You’ve  had  your  three  sufficient  warnings, 
So,  come  along;  no  more  we’ll  part:  ” 

He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart: 

And  now  old  Dodson,  turning  pale. 

Yields  to  his  fate — so  ends  my  tale. 


Cl.— THE  MEMORY  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 

From  Dr.  Beecher. 

1.  We  are  called  upon  to  cherish  with  high  veneration 
and  grateful  recollections,  the  memory  of  our  fathers.  Both 
the  ties  of  nature  and  the  dictates  of  '•'policy,  demand  this. 
And  surely  no  nation  had  ever  less  occasion  to  be  ashamed 
of  its  ancestry,  or  more  occasion  for  '•'gratulation  in  that 
respect;  for  while  most  nations  trace  their  origin  to  '•'bar- 
barians, the  foundations  of  our  nation  were  laid  by  civilized 
men,  by  Christians.  Many  of  them  were  men  of  distin 
guished  families,  of  powerful  talents,  of  great  learning  and 
of '•'pre-eminent  wisdom,  of  decision  of  character,  and  of  most 
inflexible  integrity.  And  yet  not  unfrequently,  they  have 
been  treated  as  if  they  had  no  virtues ; while  their  sins  and  fol- 
lies have  been  '•'sedulously  immortaliZiSd  in  '•'satirical  anecdote. 

2.  The  influence  of  such  treatment  of  our  fathers  is  too 
^manifest.  It  creates,  and  lets  loose  upon  their  institutions, 


266 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


the  '’’vandal  spirit  of  '’’innovation  and  overthrow;  for  after 
the  memory  of  our  fathers  shall  have  been  rendered  con- 
temptible, who  will  appreciate  and  sustain  their  institutions? 
The  memory  of  our  fathers^  should  be  the  watch-word  of 
liberty  throughout  the  land  ; for,  imperfect  as  they  were,  the 
world  before  had  not  seen  their  like,  nor  will  it  soon,  we 
fear,  behold  their  like  again.  Such  models  of  moral  excel- 
lence, such  apostles  of  civil  and  religious  liberty,  such  shades 
of  the  illustrious  dead  looking  down  upon  their  descendants 
with  approbation  or  reproof,  according  as  they  follow  or  de- 
part from  the  good  way,  constitute  a '’’censorship  inferior  only 
to  the  eye  of  Grod;  and  to  ridicule  them  is  national  '’’suicide. 

3.  The  doctrines  of  our  fathers  have  been  represented  as 
gloomy,  ■’’superstitious,  severe,  irrational,  and  of  a licentious 
tendency.  But  when  other  systems  shall  have  produced  a 
piety  as  devoted,  a morality  as  pure,  a patriotism  as  disinter- 
ested, and  a state  of  society  as  happy,  as  have  prevailed 
where  their  doctrines  have  been  most  prevalent,  it  may  be  in 
season  to  seek  an  answer  to  this  objection. 

4.  The  persecutions  instituted  by  our  fathers,  have  been 
the  occasion  of  ceaseless  '’’obloquy  upon  their  fair  fame.  And 
truly,  it  was  a fault  of  no  ordinary  magnitude,  that  sometimes 
they  did  persecute.  But  let  him  whose  ancestors  were  not 
ten  times  more  guilty,  cast  the  first  stone,  and  the  ashes  of 
our  fathers  will  no  more  be  disturbed.  Theirs  was  the  fault 
of  the  age,  and  it  will  be  easy  to  show,  that  no  class  of  men 
had,  at  that  time,  '’’approximated  so  nearly  to  just  '’’apprehen- 
sions of  religious  liberty ; and  that  it  is  to  them  that  the 
world  is  now  indebted,  for  the  more  just  and  definite  views 
which  now  prevail. 

5.  The  '’’superstition  and  '’’bigotry  of  our  fathers,  are  themes 
on  which  some  of  their  descendants,  themselves  far  enough 
from  superstition,  if  not  from  bigotry,  have  delighted  to 
dwell.  But  when  we  look  abroad,  and  behold  the  condition 
of  the  world,  compared  with  the  condition  of  New  England^ 
we  may  justly  exclaim,  “Would  to  God  that  the  ancestors 
of  all  the  nations  had  been  not  only  almost,  but  altogether 
such  bigots  as  our  fathers  were.” 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


267 


CIL— LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 
From  Mrs.  Hemans. 

1.  The  breaking  waves  dashed  hig’i 

On  a stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a stormy  sky, 

Their  giant  branches  tossed ; 

2.  And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o’er, 

When  a band  of  exiles  ^moored  their  bark 
On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

3.  Not  as  the  conqueror  comes. 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came; 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame; 

4.  Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence,  and  in  fear ; 

They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 
With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

5.  Amid  the  storm  they  sang. 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea, 

And  the  sounding  ‘‘'aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  ■‘'anthem  of  the  free. 

6.  The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave’ s foam ; 

And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared ; 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

7.  There  were  men  with  hoary  hair. 

Amid  that  pilgrim  band: 

Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there. 

Away  from  their  childhood’s  land? 

8.  There  was  woman’s  fearless  eye. 

Lit  by  her  deep  love’s  truth; 

There  was  manhood’s  brow,  ‘'serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

9.  What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 

The  wealth  of  seas,  tho  spoils  of  war?  ^ 

They  sought  a faith’s  pure  ‘‘'shrine  1 


268 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


10.  Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod: 

They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found! 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 


cm.— THE  FOURTEENTH  CONGRESS. 

From  R.  H.  Wilde. 

1.  I had  the  honor  to  be  a member  of  the  fourteenth  Con- 
gress. It  was  an  honor  then.  What  it  is  now.,  I shall  not 
say.  It  is  what  the  twenty-second  Congress  have  been 
pleased  to  make  it.  I have  neither  time,  nor  strength,  nor 
ability,  to  speak  of  the  legislators  of  that  day,  as  they  de- 
serve; nor  is  this  a fit  occasion.  Yet  the  coldest  or  most 
careless  nature  can  not  "^recur  to  such  associates,  without 
some  touch  of  generous  feeling,  which,  in  quicker  spirits, 
would  kindle  into  high  and  almost  holy  '^'enthusiasm. 

2.  "^Pre-eminent  among  them  was  a gentleman  of  South 
Carolina,*  now  no  more,  the  purest,  the  calmest,  the  most 
philosophical  of  our  country’s  modern  statesmen : one,  no 
less  remarkable  for  gentleness  of  manners  and  kindness  of 
heart,  than  for  that  passionless,  unclouded  intellect,  which 
rendered  him  deserving  of  the  praise,  if  ever  man  deserved 
it,  of  merely  standing  by,  and  letting  reason  argue  for  him: 
the  true  patriot,  incapable  of  all  selfish  ambition,  who  shunned 
ofl&ce  and  distinction,  yet  served  his  country  faithfully,  be- 
cause he  loved  her:  he,  I mean,  who  '’'consecrated,  by  his 
example,  the  noble  precept,  so  entirely  his  own,  that  the  first 
station  in  a republic  was  neither  to  be  sought  after  nor  de- 
clined; a sentiment  so  just  and  so  happily  expressed,  that  it 
continues  to  be  repeated,  because  it  can  not  be  improved. 

3.  There  was,  also,  a gentleman  from  Maryland,  f whose 
ashes  now  slumber  in  your  '’'cemetery.  It  is  not  long  since  I 
stood  by  his  tomb,  and  recalled  him,  as  he  was  then,  in  all 
the  pride  and  power  of  his  genius.  Among  the  first  of  his 
countrymen  and  '’'cotemporaries,  as  a '’'jurist  and  ‘’'statesman, 
first  as  an  orator,  he  was,  if  not  truly  eloquent,  the  prince  of 


* Lowndes, 


t"  Pinckney. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


269 


■^‘rhetoricians.  Nor  did  the  soundness  of  his  '’'logic  suffer  any 
thing,  by  a comparison  with  the  richness  and  classical  purity 
of  the  language,  in  which  he  '•'copiously  poured  forth  those 
figurative  illustrations  of  his  argument,  which  enforced  while 
they  adorned  it.  But  let  others  pronounce  his  '•‘eulogy.  1 
must  not.  I feel  as  if  his  mighty  spirit  still  haunted  the 
scenes  of  its  triumphs,  and  when  I dared  to  wrong  them,  in- 
dignantly rebuked  me. 

4.  These  names  have  become  '•'historical.  There  were 
others,  of  whom  it  is  more  difficult  to  speak,  because  yet 
within  the  reach  of  praise  or  envy.  For  one  who  was,  or 
aspired  to  be,  a politician,  it  would  be  prudent,  perhaps  wise, 
to  avoid  all  mention  of  these  men.  Their  acts,  their  words, 
their  thoughts,  their  very  looks,  have  become  subjects  of 
party  controversy.  But  he  whose  ambition  is  of  a higher  or 
lower  order,  has  no  such  need  of  reserve.  Talent  is  of  no 
party  exclusively ; nor  is  justice. 

5.  Among  them,  but  not  of  them,  in  the  fearful  and 
solitary  sublimity  of  genius,  stood  a gentleman  from  Yir- 
ginia  * — whom  it  were  '‘'superfluous  to  '•'designate ; whose 
speeches  were  universally  read ; whose  '•'satire  was  univers- 
ally feared.  Upon  whose  accents,  did  this  habitually  listless 
and  unlistening  House,  hang  so  frequently,  with  rapt  atten- 
tion? Whose  fame  was  '•'identified  with  that  body  for  so 
long  a period?  Who  was  a more  '•'dexterous  debater?  a riper 
scholar?  better  versed  in  the  politics  of  our  own  country?  or 
deeper  read  in  the  history  of  others?  Above  all,  who  was 
more  thoroughly '•'imbued  with  the  '•'idiom  of  the  English  lan- 
guage? more  completely  master  of  its  strength,  and  beauty, 
and  delicacy?  or  more  capable  of  breathing  thoughts  of  flame, 
in  words  of  magic  and  tones  of  silver? 

6.  There  was,  also,  a son  of  South  Carolina, f still  in  the 
service  of  the  republic,  then,  undoubtedly,  the  most  influ- 
ential member  of  this  house.  With  a genius  eminently 
'•'metaphysical,  he  applied  to  politics  his  habits  of  '•'analysis, 
■•'abstraction,  and  '•'condensation,  and  thus  gave  to  the  '•'prob- 
lems of  government,  something  of  that  '•'grandeur,  which  the 
higher  mathematics  have  borrowed  from  astronomy.  The 


Randolph. 


t Calhoun. 


270 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


wirigy  of  his  mind  were  rapid,  but  capricious,  and  tliere  were 
times,  when  the  light  which  flashed  from  them  as  they  passed, 
glanced  like  a mirror  in  the  sun,  only  to  dazzle  the  beholder. 
'•'Engrossed  with  bis  subject,  careless  of  his  words,  his  loftie^^t 
flights  of  eloquence  were  sometimes  followed  by  '•'colloquial 
or  '•'provincial  '•'barbarisms.  But,  though  often  incorrect,  he 
was  always  fascinating.  Language,  with  him,  was  merely  the 
''vcaffolding  of  thought,  employed  to  raise  a dome,  which,  like 
Angelo’s,  he  suspended  in  the  heavens. 

7.  It  is  equally  impossible  to  forget  or  to  omit,  a gentle- 
man from  Kentucky,*  whom  party  has  since  made  the  fruit- 
ful topic  of  unmeasured  '•'panegyric  and  '•'detraction.  Of 
'•'sanguine  '•'temperament,  and  impetuous  character,  his  decla- 
mation was  impassioned,  his  retorts  '•'acrimonious.  Beflcient 
in  '•'reflnement,  rather  than  in  strength,  his  style  was  less 
elegant  and  correct,  than  animated  and  impressive.  But  it 
swept  away  your  feelings  with  it,  like  a mountain  torrent, 
and  the  force  of  the  stream  left  you  little  leisure  to  remark 
upon  its  clearness.  His  estimate  of  human  nature  was,  prob- 
ably, not  very  high.  Unhappily,  it  is,  perhaps,  more  likely 
to  have  been  lowered,  than  raised,  by  his  subsequent  expe- 
rience. Yet  then  and  ever  since,  except  when  that  impru' 
dence  so  natural  to  genius  prevailed  over  his  better  judg- 
ment, he  adopted  a lofty  tone  of  sentiment,  whether  he  spoke 
of  measures  or  of  men,  of  friend  or  adversary.  On  many 
occasions,  he  was  noble  and  captivating.  One,  I can  never 
forget.  It  was  the  flne  burst  of  indignant  eloquence,  with 
which  he  replied  to  the  taunting  question,  “What  have  we 
gained  by  the  war?” 

8.  Nor  may  I pass  over  in  silence  a Bepresentative  from* 
New  Hampshire, f who  has  almost  '•'obliterated  all  memory  ot* 
that  distinction,  by  the  superior  fame  he  has  attained  as  a 
Senator  from  Massachusetts.  Though  then  but  in  the  bud  of 
his  political  life,  and  hardly  conscious,  perhaps,  of  his  own 
extraordinary  powers,  he  gave  promise  of  the  greatness  he 
has  since  '•'achieved.  The  same  vigor  of  thought;  the  same 
force  of  expression;  the  short  sentences;  the  calm,  cold,  col- 
lected manner;  the  air  of  solemn  dignity;  the  deep,  '•’sepul- 


Clay. 


t Webster. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


271 


chral,  '*'unimpassioned  voice;  all  have  been  developed  only, 
not  changed,  even  to  the  intense  bitterness  of  his  '^'frigid 
■‘'irony.  The  piercing  coldness  of  his  sarcasm  was  indeed 
peculiar  to  him;  it  seemed  to  be  an  '^'emanation  from  the 
spirit  of  the  icy  ocean.  Nothing  could  be  at  once  so  novel 
and  so  powerful ; it  was  frozen  mercury,  becoming  as  '‘'caustic 
as  red  hot  iron. 


CIV.— THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

From  Drake.  ' 

1.  When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 

■‘'Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  ‘‘'azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there ; 

She  mingled  with  its  ‘‘'gorgeous  dyes, 

The  milky  '‘'baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure,  '‘'celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 

Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 

She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  '‘'symbol  of  her  cLcsen  land. 

2.  '‘'Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud! 

Who  rear  ’st  aloft  thy  '‘'regal  form, 

To  hear  the  tempest  trumping  loud, 

And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven. 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven  1 
Child  of  the  sun!  to  thee  ’t  is  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free. 

To  '‘'hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke. 

To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke. 

And  bid  its  ‘‘'blendings  shine  afar. 

Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war. 

The  '‘'harbinger  of  victory. 

3.  Flag  of  the  brave ! thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 

When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  line  comes  '•'gleaming  on; 


272 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  "^dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 

Each  soldier’s  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  ^meteor  glories  burn, 

And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 

Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance; 
And  when  the  cannon’s  '•'mouthings  loud 
Heave,  in  wild  wreaths,  the  battle  '’'shroud. 
And  '’’gory  sabers  rise  and  fall, 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight’s  pall; 
Then  shall  thy  victor  glances  glow. 

And  "tcowering  foes  shall  sink  below 
Each  gallant  arm,  that  strikes  beneath 
That  awful  '’'messenger  of  death. 

4.  Flag  of  the  seas!  on  ocean’s  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o’er  the  brave; 

When  death,  '’'careering  on  the  gale. 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail. 

And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back. 

Before  the  broadside’s  reeling  rack, 

The  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee. 

And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 

In  triumph  o’er  his  closing  eye. 

5.  Flag  of  the  free  heart’s  only  home. 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given; 

Thy  stars  have  lit  the  '’'welkin  '’'dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us. 
With  E^eedom’s  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom’s  banner  waving  o’er  us? 


CV.  — THE  EAGLE. 

From  Percival. 

James  G.  Percival,  a native  of  Connecticut,  was  a poet  of  distinction. 
He  was  also  distinguished  as  a geologist,  botanist,  and  philologist.  He 
was  remarkable  for  his  extreme  modesty  and  reserve,  as  well  as  for  his 
learning  and  poetic  talent.  He  died  in  1856. 

1.  Bird  of  the  broad  and  sweeping  wing! 

'J'hy  home  is  high  in  heaven. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


273 


Where  the  wide  storms  their  banners  Hing, 

And  the  tempest  clouds  are  driven. 

Thy  throne  is  on  the  mountain-top ; 

Thy  fields,  the  boundless  air; 

And  hoary  peaks,  that  proudly  prop 
The  skies,  thy  dwellings  are. 

2.  Thou  art  perched  aloft,  on  the  '^'beetling  cragj 

And  the  waves  are  white  below. 

And  on,  with  a haste  that  can  not  lag, 

They  rush  in  an  endless  flow. 

Again  thou  hast  plumed  thy  wing  for  flight. 

To  lands  beyond  the  sea, 

And  away,  like  a spirit  wreathed  in  light, 

Thou  hurriest,  wdld  and  free. 

3.  Lord  of  the  '•'boundless  realm  of  air ! 

In  thy  '•'imperial  name. 

The  hearts  of  the  bold  and  ardent  dare 
The  dangerous  path  of  fame. 

Beneath  the  shade  of  thy  golden  wings. 

The  Homan  '•'legions  bore. 

From  the  river  of  Egypt’s  cloudy  springs, 

Their  pride,  to  the  polar  shore.* 

4.  For  thee  they  fought,  for  thee  they  fell. 

And  their  oath  on  thee  was  laid ; 

To  thee  the  '•'clarions  raised  their  swell. 

And  the  dying  warrior  prayed. 

Thou  wert,  through  an  age  of  death  and  fears. 
The  image  of  pride  and  power. 

Till  the  gathered  rage  of  a thousand  years, 
Burst  forth  in  one  awful  hour  f 

5.  And  then,  a deluge  of  wrath  it  came. 

And  the  nations  shook  with  dread ; 

And  it  swept  the  earth,  till  its  fields  were  flame. 
And  piled  with  the  mingled  dead. 

Kings  were  rolled  in  the  wasteful  flood. 

With  the  low  and  '•'crouching  slave ; 

And  together  lay,  in  a shroud  of  blood. 

The  coward  and  the  brave. 


^ The  Roman  standard  was  the  image  of  an  eagle.  The  soldiers 
swore  by  it,  and  the  loss  of  it  was  considered  a disgrace. 

t Alluding  to  the  destruction  of  Rome  by  the  northern  barbarians. 


274 


NEW  SIXTH  READER 


6.  And  where  was  then  thy  fearless  flight? 

“O’er  the  dark  and  ^mysterious  sea, 

To  the  land,  that  caught  the  setting  light, 

The  cradle  of  Liber t}^ 

There,  on  the  silent  and  lonely  shore. 

For  ages  I watched  alone. 

And  the  world,  in  its  darkness,  asked  no  more 
Where  the  glorious  bird  had  flown. 

7.  “ But  then,  came  a bold  and  hardy  few. 

And  they  breasted  the  unknown  wave; 

I saw  from  far  the  wandering  crew. 

And  I knew  they  were  high  and  brave. 

I wheeled  around  the  welcome  bark. 

As  it  sought  the  "^desolate  shore. 

And  up  to  heaven,  like  a joyous  lark, 

My  ■‘■quivering  '•'pinions  bore. 

8.  “And  now  that  bold  and  hardy  few 

Are  a nation  wide  and  strong. 

And  danger  and  doubt  1 have  led  them  through. 

And  they  '•'worship  me  in  song; 

And  over  their  bright  and  '•'glancing  arms. 

On  field,  and  lake,  and  sea. 

With  an  eye  that  fires,  and  a spell  that  charms, 

1 guide  them  to  '•’victory!” 


CVI.— THE  SHIPWRECK. 

1.  In  the  winter  of  1824,  Lieutenant  G , of  tbe 

United  States  navy,  with  his  beautiful  wife  and  infant  child, 
'•'embarked  in  a packet  at  Norfolk,  bound  to  South  Carolina. 
For  tbe  first  day  and  night  after  their  departure,  the  wind  con- 
tinued fair,  and  the  weather  clear ; but,  on  the  evening  of  the 
second  day,  a severe  gale  sprung  up,  and,  toward  midnight, 
the  captain,  judging  himself  much  further  from  the  land  than 
he  really  was,  and  dreading  the  Gulf  Stream,  hauled  in  for 
the  coast;  but  with  the  intention,  it  is  presumed,  of  lying  to 
when  he  supposed  himself  clear  of  the  Gulf  Lieut.  G.  did 
not  approve  of  the  captain’s  determination,  and  the  result 
proved  that  his  fears  were  well-founded;  for  toward  morning 
the  vessel  grounded. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


275 


2.  Vain  would  it  be,  to  attempt  a description  of  the  horror 
which  was  "^depicted  in  every  countenance,  when  the  awful 
shock,  occasioned  by  the  striking  of  the  vessel’s  bottom,  was 
first  experienced.  The  terror  of  such  a situation  can  be 
known  only  to  those,  who  have  themselves  been  shipwrecked. 
No  others  can  have  a tolerable  idea  of  what  passed  in  the 
minds  of  the  wretched  crew,  as  they  gazed  with  vacant  horror 
on  the  thundering  '•'elements,  and  felt,  that  their  frail  bark 
must  soon,  perhaps  the  next  thump,  be  dashed  to  pieces, 
and  they  left  at  the  mercy  of  the  billows,  with  not  even 
a plank  between  them  and  '•'eternity.  First,  comes  the 
thumping  of  the  vessel;  next,  the  dashing  of  the  surge  over 
her  sides ; then,  the  '•'careening  of  the  vessel  on  her  beam 
ends,  as  the  waves,  for  an  instant,  '•'recede ; and  lastly,  the 
crashing  of  the  spars  and  timbers,  at  each  returning  wave; 
the  whole  forming  a scene  of  confusion  and  horror  which  no 
language  can  describe. 

3.  But  awful  as  is  the  shipwrecked  sailor’s  prospect,  what 
are  Ms  feelings  compared  to  the  agony  of  a fond  Tiushand  and 
father^  who  clasps  in  a last  embrace  his  little  world,  his  be- 
loved wife  and  child ! The  land  was  in  sight,  but  to  approach 
it  was  scarcely  less  dangerous,  than  to  remain  in  the  raging 
sea  around  them.  Lieut.  G.  was  a seaman,  and  a brave  one ; 
accustomed  to  danger,  and  quick  in  seizing  upon  every  means 
of  rescuing  the  unfortunate.  But  now^  who  were  the  unfor- 
tunate, that  called  on  him  for  '•'rescue?  Who  were  they, 
whose  screams  were  heard  louder  than  the  roaring  elements, 
imploring  that  aid  which  no  human  power  could  afford  them? 
His  wife  and  child!  0!  heart-rending  '•'agonj. 

4.  But  why  attempt  to  describe  what  few  can  imagine? 
In  a word,  the  only  boat  which  could  be  got,  was  manned 
ly  two  gallant  tars.  Mrs.  G.,  and  her  child,  and  its  nurse 
were  lifted  into  it;  it  was  the  thought  of  '•'desperation! 
The  freight  was  already  too  much.  Mr.  G.  saw  this,  and 
knew  that  the  addition  of  himself  would  diminish  the 
chances  of  the  boat’s  reaching  the  shore  in  safety;  and  hor- 
rible as  was  the  '•'alternative,  he  himself  gave  the  order; — 
“ Push  off,  and  make  for  the  land,  my  brave  lads ! ” — the  last 
words  that  ever  passed  his  lips  ! The  order  was  cbcycd  ; but 
ere  the  little  boat  had  proceeded  fifty  yards,  (about  half  the 


276 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


distaDce  to  the  beach,)  it  was  struck  by  a wave,  fcapsized, 
and  boat,  passengers,  and  all,  '‘'enveloped  in  the  angry  surge ! 
The  wretched  husband  saw  but  too  distinctly  the  destruction 
of  all  that  he  held  dear.  But  here,  alas,  and  forever  were 
shut  out  from  him  all  '‘'sublunary  prospects.  He  fell  upon  the 
deck — powerless^  senseless^  a CORPSE — the  victim  of  a sublihie 
sensibility. 

5.  But  what  became  of  the  unhappy  wife  and  child  ? The 
answer  shall  be  brief.  Mrs.  Gr.  was  borne  through  the  break- 
ers to  the  shore  by  one  of  the  brave  sailors ; the  nurse  was 
thrown  upon  the  beach  with  the  drowned  infant  in  her  arms. 
Mrs.  Gr.  was  taken  to  a hut  senseless,  continued  '‘'delirious 
many  days,  but  finally  recovered  her  senses,  and  with  them, 
a consciousness  of  the  awful  '‘'catastrophe  which,  in  a mo* 
ment,  had  made  her  a childless  widow. 


evil.— TO  MY  MOTHER. 

1.  I KNOW  thou  art  gone  to  the  land  of  thy  rest; 

Then  why  should  my  soul  be  so  sad  ? 

I know  thou  art  gone  where  the  weary  are  blest, 

And  the  mourner  looks  up  and  is  glad ; 

Where  Love  has  put  off  in  the  land  of  its  birth, 

The  stain  it  had  gathered  in  this, 

And  Hope,  the  sweet  singer  that  gladdened  the  earth. 
Lies  asleep  in  the  bosom  of  bliss. 

2.  I know  thou  art  gone  where  thy  forehead  is  starred 

With  the  beauty  that  dwelt  in  thy  soul, 

Where  the  light  of  thy  loveliness  can  not  be  '‘'marred, 
Nor  thy  heart  be  flung  back  from  its  '‘'goal; 

I know  thou  hast  drunk  of  the  Lethe  that  flows 
Through  a land  where  they  do  not  forget ; 

That  sheds  over  memory  only  '‘'repose, 

And  takes  from  it  only  regret. 

3.  This  eye  must  be  dark,  that  so  long  has  been  dim. 

Ere  again  it  may  gaze  upon  thine ; 

But  my  heart  has  '‘'revealings  of  thee  and  thy  home, 
In  many  a token  and  sign ; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


277 


I never  look  up,  with  a vow,  to  the  sky, 

But  a light  like  thy  beauty  is  there; 

And  I hear  a low  murmur,  like  thine,  reply, 
When  I pour  out  my  spirit  in  prayer. 

4.  In  the  far-away  dwelling,  wherever  it  be, 

1 believe  thou  hast  visions  of  mine; 

And  the  love  that  made  all  things  as  music  to  me, 

1 have  not  yet  learned  to  resign. 

In  the  +hush  of  the  night,  on  the  waste  of  the  sea. 
Or  alone  with  the  breeze,  on  the  hill, 

1 have  ever  a presence  that  whispers  of  thee, 

And  my  spirit  lies  down  and  is  still. 

5.  And  though  like  a mourner  that  sits  by  a tomb, 

I am  wrapped  in  a '•'mantle  of  care ; 

Yet  the  grief  of  my  bosom — oh!  call  it  not  gloom — 
Is  not  the  black  grief  of  despair. 

By  sorrow  '•'revealed,  as  the  stars  are  by  night. 

Far  off  a bright  vision  appears; 

And  hope,  like  the  rainbow — a creature  of  light, 

Is  born,  like  the  rainbow,  in  tears. 


C VIII.— THE  EAGLE’S  NEST. 

From  Wilson. 

Bairn;  child.  Wee  Wean;  a little  child. 

1.  Almost  all  the  people  in  the  parish  were  loading  in 
their  meadow-hay  on  the  same  day  of  midsummer,  so  drying 
was  the  sunshine  and  the  wind ; ana  huge  heaped-up  '•'wains, 
that  almost  hid  from  view  the  horses  that  drew  them  along 
the  sward  beginning  'o  get  green  with  second  growth, 
were  moving  in  all  directions  toward  the  snug  farm-yards. 
Never  had  the  parish  seemed  before  so  populous.  '•'Jocund 
was  the  balmy  air  with  laughter,  whistle,  and  song.  But  the 
'•'tree-gnomons  threw  the  shadow  of  “ one  o’clock”  on  the 
green  dial-face  of  the  earth;  the  horses  were  unyoked  and 
took  instantly  to  grazing ; groups  of  men,  women,  lads,  lasses, 
and  children,  collected  under  grove,  and  bush,  and  hedge-row ; 
graces  were  pronounced,  some  of  them  rather  too  tedious  in 
presence  of  the  '•'mantling  milk=cans,  bullion-bars  of  butter, 


278 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


and  crackling  cakes;  and  tRe  great  Being  who  gave  them 
that  day  their  daily'  bread,  looked  down  from  his  eternal 
throne,  well-pleased  with  the  piety  of  his  thankful  creatures. 

2.  The  great  golden  eagle,  the  pride  and  the  pest  of  the 
parish,  stooped  down,  and  flew  away  with  something  in  its 
talons.  One  single,  sudden,  female  shriek  arose;  and,  then, 
shouts  and  outcries,  as  if  a church  spire  had  tumbled  down 
on  a congregation  at  a '•'sacrament : “ Hannah  Lamond’s 
bairn  ! Hannah  Lamond’s  bairn  ! ” was  the  loud,  fast-spread- 
ing cry.  “ The  eagle  has  ta’en  off  Hannah  Lamond’s  bairn  ! ” 
and  many  hundred  feet  were,  in  another  instant  hurrying 
toward  the  mountain.  Two  miles  of  hill  and  '•'dale,  and 
'•'copse,  and  shingle,  and  many  '•'intersecting  brooks  lay  be- 
tween ; but,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  was  alive  with  people. 

3.  The  '•'aerie  was  well  known,  and  both  old  birds  were 
visible  on  the  rock-ledge.  But  who  shall  scale  that  dizzy 
clifi*,  which  Mark  Steuart,  the  sailor,  who  had  been  at  the 
storming  of  many  a fort,  attempted  in  vain  ? All  kept  gazing, 
weeping,  wringing  their  hands  in  vain,  rooted  to  the  ground, 
or  running  back  and  forward,  like  so  many  ants  '•'essaying 
their  new  wings  in  '•'discomfiture.  “ What ’s  the  use,  what ’s 
the  use  o’  ony  puir  human  means?  We  have  no  power  but 
in  prayer!”  and  many  knelt  down — fathers  and  mothers 
thinking  of  their  own  babies — as  if  they  would  force  the 
deaf  heavens  to  hear ! 

4.  Hannah  Lamond  had  all  this  while  been  sitting  on  a 
rock,  with  a face  perfectly  white,  and  eyes  like  those  of  a 
mad  person,  fixed  on  the  aerie.  Nobody  had  noticed  her; 
for  strong  as  all  sympathies  with  her  had  been  at  the  swoop 
of  the  eagle,  they  were  now  swallowed  up  in  the  agony  of 
eye-sight.  ‘‘Only  last  sabbath  was  my  sweet  wee  wean 
baptized  in  the  name  o’  the  Father,  and  the  Son,  and  tha 
Holy  Ghost!”  and  on  uttering  these  words,  she  flew  ofi 
through  the  brakes  and  over  the  huge  stones,  up — up — 
up — faster  than  ever  hunstsman  ran  in  to  the  death,  fear- 
less as  a goat  playing  among  the  precipices. 

5.  No  one  doubted,  no  one  could  doubt,  that  she  would 
soon  be  dashed  to  pieces.  But  have  not  people  who  walk  in 
their  sleep,  obedient  to  the  mysterious  guidance  of  dreams, 


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climbed  the  walls  of  old  ruins,  nnd  found  footing,  even  in 
’‘'decrepitude,  along  the  edge  of  unguarded  '^battlements,  and 
down  '‘'dilapidated  staircases,  deep  as  draw-wells  or  coal-pits, 
and  returned  with  open,  fixed^  and  unseeing  eyes,  unharmed 
to  their  beds,  at  midnight!  It  is  all  the  work  of  the  soul, 
to  whom  the  body  is  a slave;  and  shall  not  the  agony  of  a 
mother’s  passion,  who  sees  her  baby  whose  warm  mouth  had 
just  left  her  breast,  hurried  oil  by  a demon  to  a hideous 
death,  bear  her  limbs  aloft  wherever  there  is  dust  to  dust,  till 
she  reach  that  devouring  den,  and  fiercer  and  more  furious 
far,  in  the  passion  of  love,  than  any  bird  of  prey  that  ever 
bathed  its  beak  in  blood,  throttle  the  fiends,  that  with  their 
heavy  wings  would  fain  fiap  her  down  the  cliffs,  and  hold  up 
her  child  in  deliverance  before  the  eye  of  the  all-seeing  God? 

6.  No  stop — no  stay, — she  knew  not  that  she  drew  her 
breath.  Beneath  her  feet.  Providence  fastened  every  loose 
stone,  and  to  her  hands  strengthened  every  root.  How  was 
she  ever  to  descend?  That  fear  but  once  crossed  her  heart, 
as  she  went  up — up — up — to  the  little  image  of  her  own  flesh 
and  blood.  “ The  God  who  holds  me  now  from  perishing, 
will  not  the  same  God  save  me  when  my  child  is  on  my 
bosom?”  Down  came  the  fierce  rushing  of  the  eagles’ 
wings;  each  savage  bird  dashing  close  to  her  head,  so  that 
she  saw  the  yellow  of  their  wrathful  eyes.  All  at  once,  they 
■‘'quailed  and  were  cowed.  Yelling,  they  flew  off  to  the 
stump  of  an  ash  '‘'jutting  out  of  a cliff,  a thousand  feet  above 
the  cataract;  and  the  Christian  mother  falling  across  the 
aerie,  in  the  midst  of  bones  and  blood,  clasped  her  child — 
dead — dead — dead — no  doubt — but  unmangled  and  untorn, 
and  ■‘'swaddled  up  just  as  it  was,  when  she  laid  it  down  asleep 
among  the  fresh  hay  in  a nook  of  the  harvest  field. 

7.  Oh!  what  a pang  of  perfect  blessedness  '‘'transfixed  her 

heart  from  that  faint,  feeble  cry, — “ It  lives — it  lives — it 
lives!”  and  baring  her  bosom,  with  loud  laughter  and  eyes 
dry  as  stones,  she  felt  the  lips  of  the  '‘'unconscious  innocent, 
once  more  murmuring  at  the  fount  of  life  and  love ! 0 

thou  great  and  thou  dreadful  God  ! whither  hast  thou  brought 
me,  one  of  the  most  sinful  of  thy  creatures  ? Oh ! save  my 
soul,  lest  it  perish,  even  for  thy  own  name’s  sake  I 0 thou, 
who  diedst  to  save  sinners,  have  mercy  upon  me  ! ” 


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8.  Below,  were  cliffs,  '^chasms,  blocks  of  stone,  and  the 
‘^'skeletons  of  old  trees — far — far  down — and  '’’dwindled  into 
specks,  and  a thousand  creatures  of  her  own  kind,  '’'stationary, 
or  running  to  and  fro  ! Was  that  the  sound  of  the  water- 
fall, or  the  faint  roar  of  voices?  Is  that  her  native  strath? 
and  that  tuft  of  trees,  does  it  contain  the  hut,  in  which 
stands  the  cradle  of  her  child?  Never  more  shall  it  be 
rocked  by  her  foot!  Here  must  she  die;  and  when  her 
breast  is  exhausted,  her  baby,  too ! And  those  horrid  beaks, 
and  eyes,  and  talons,  and  wings,  will  return,  and  her  child 
will  be  devoured  at  last,  even  within  the  dead  bosom,  that  can 
protect  it  no  more. 


CIX.— THE  EAGLE’S  NEST— CONCLUDED. 

Screes  ; precipices.  Maun  ; must.  Claes  ; clothes. 

1.  Where,  all  this  time,  was  Mark  Steuart,  the  sailor? 
Half  way  up  the  cliffs.  But  his  eye  had  got  dim,  and  his 
heart  sick;  and  he,  who  had  so  often  reefed  the  top-gallant 
sail,  when,  at  midnight,  the  coming  of  the  gale  was  heard 
afar,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  dared  look  no  lon- 
ger on  the  swimming  heights.  “And  who  will  take  care  of  my 
poor,  bed-ridden  mother?”  thought  Hannah,  whose  soul, 
through  the  '’'exhaustion  of  so  many  passions,  could  no 
more  retain  in  its  grasp  that  hope,  which  it  had  '’'clutched  in 
despair.  A voice  whispered  “God.”  She  looked  around 
expecting  to  see  an  angel,  but  nothing  moved,  except  a rotten 
branch,  that,  under  its  own  weight,  broke  off  from  the  crumb- 
ling rock.  Her  eye,  by  some  secret  '’'sympathy  of  her  soul 
with  the  inanimate  object,  watched  its  fall;  and  it  seemed  to 
Hop  not  far  off,  on  a small  '’'platform. 

2.  Her  child  was  bound  within  her  bosom — she  remem- 
bered not  how  or  when, — but  it  was  safe — and,  scarcely  dar- 
ing to  open  her  eyes,  she  slid  down  the  shelving  rocks,  and 
found  herself  on  a small  piece  of  firm,  root-bound  soil,  with 
the  tops  of  bushes  appearing  below.  With  fingers  suddenly 
strengthened  into  the  power  of  iron,  she  swting  herself  down, 
by  briar,  and  broom,  and  '’'heather,  and  dwarf  birch.  Here, 
a loosened  stone  leaped  over  a ledge,  and  no  sound  was  heard, 


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281 


so  profound  was  its  fall.  There,  the  shingle  rattled  down  the 
screes,  and  she  hesitated  not  to  follow.  Her  feet  bounded 
against  the  huge  stone  that  stopped  them,  but  she  felt  no 
pain.  Her  body  was  '♦'callous  as  the  cliff.  Steep,  as  the  up- 
right wall  of  a house,  was  now  the  side  of  the  precipice. 
But  it  was  '♦'matted  with  ivy,  '♦'centuries  old,  long  ago  dead, 
and  without  a single  green  leaf,  but  with  thousands  of  arm- 
thick  stems,  '♦'petrified  into  the  rock,  and  covering  it,  as  with 
a '♦'trellis.  She  bound  her  baby  to  her  neck,  and,  with  hands 
and  feet,  clung  to  the  fearful  ladder. 

3.  Turning  round  her  head  and  looking  down,  lo ! the 
whole  population  of  the  parish — so  great  was  the  multitude — 
on  their  knees ! and,  hush ! the  voice  of  psalms ! a hymn, 
breathing  the  spirit  of  one  united  prayer ! Sad  and  solemn 
was  the  strain,  but  nothing  dirge-like,  breathing  not  of  death, 
but  deliverance.  Often  had  she  sung  that  tune,  perhaps  the 
very  words, — but  them  she  heard  not — in  her  own  hut,  she 
and  her  mother;  or,  in  the  kirk,  along  with  the  congregation. 

' An  unseen  hand  seemed  fastening  her  fingers  to  the  ribs 
of  ivy,  and,  in  sudden  '♦'inspiration,  believing  that  her 
life  was  to  be  saved,  she  became  almost  as  fearless  as  if 
she  had  been  changed  into  a winged  creature.  Again  her 
feet  touched  stones  and  earthy  the  psalm  was  hushed,  but  a 
Hremulous,  sobbing  voice  was  close  beside  her,  and  lo  ! a she- 
goat,  with  two  little  kids,  at  her  feet!  “Wild  heights,” 
thought  she,  “ do  these  creatures  climb,  but  the  dam  will  lead 
down  her  kid  by  the  easiest  paths ; for,  oh  1 even  in  the  brute 
creatures,  what  is  the  holy  power  of  a mother’s  love!”  and 
turning  round  her  head,  she  kissed  her  sleeping  baby,  and, 
for  the  first  time,  she  wept. 

4.  Overhead,  frowned  the  front  of  the  precipice,  never 
before  touched  by  human  hand  or  foot.  No  one  had  ever 
dreamed  of  '♦'scaling  it,  and  the  golden  eagles  knew  that  well, 
in  their  instinct,  as,  before  they  built  their  aerie,  they  had 
brushed  it  with  their  wings.  But  all  the  rest  of  this  part 
of  the  mountain  side,  though  '♦'scarred,  and  '♦'seamed,  and 
'♦'chasmed,  was  yet  '♦'accessible ; and  more  than  one  person  in 
the  parish  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  Glead’s  Cliff'. 
Many  were  now  attempting  it;  and,  ere  the  cautious  mother 
had  followed  her  dumb  guides  a hundred  yards,  though  among 


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dangers,  that,  although  enough  to  terrify  the  stoutest  heart, 
were  '‘'traversed  by  her  without  a shudder,  the  head  of  one 
man  appeared,  and  then  the  head  of  another;  and  she  knew 
that  God  had  delivered  her  and  her  child,  in  safety,  into  the 
care  of  their  fellow-creatures. 

5.  Not  a word  was  spoken,  eyes  said  enough,  she  hushed 
her  friends  with  her  hands,  and,  with  uplifted  eyes,  pointed 
to  the  guides  lent  to  her  by  Heaven.  Small,  green  '‘'plats, 
where  those  creatures  nibble  the  wild  flowers,  became  now 
more  frequent;  trodden  lines,  almost  as  easy  as  sheep-paths, 
showed  that  the  dam  had  not  led  her  young  into  danger;  and 
now,  the  brush-wood  dwindled  away  into  straggling  shrubs, 
and  the  party  stood  on  a little  '^'eminence  above  the  stream, 
and  forming  part  of  the  strath. 

6.  There  had  been  trouble  and  agitation,  much  sobbing, 
and  many  tears,  among  the  multitude,  while  the  mother  was 
scaling  the  cliffs ; sublime  was  the  shout  that  echoed  afar, 
the  moment  she  reached  the  '*'aerie ; then,  had  succeeded  a 
silence,  deep  as  death;  in  a little  while,  arose  that  hym- 
ning prayer,  succeeded  by  mute  supplication;  the  wildness  of 
thankful  and  '‘'congratulatory  joy,  had  next  its  sway;  and 
now,  that  her  salvation  was  sure,  the  great  crowd  rustled 
like  a wind-swept  wood.  And  for  whose  sake  was  all  this 
alternation  of '‘'agony?  A poor,  humble  creature,  unknown 
to  many,  even  by  name ; one  who  had  but  few  friends,  nor 
wished  for  more ; contented  to  work  all  day,  here,  there,  any- 
where, that  she  might  be  able  to  support  her  aged  mother, 
and  her  little  child  ; and  who,  on  sabbath,  took  her  seat  in 
an  obscure  pew,  set  apart  for  '‘'paupers,  in  the  kirk  ! 

7.  Fall  back,  and  give  her  fresh  air!  ” said  the  old  min- 
ister of  the  parish  ; and  the  circle  of  close  faces  widened 
around  her,  lying  as  in  death.  “ Give  me  the  bonnie  bit 
bairn  into  m.y  arms,”  cried  flrst  one  mother,  and  then  another  ; 
and  it  was  tenderly  handed  around  the  circle  of  kisses,  many 
of  the  snooded  maidens  bathing  its  face  in  tears.  “There’s 
na  a scratch  about  the  puir  innocent,  for  the  eagle,  you  see, 
maun  hae  stuck  its '‘'talons  into  the  lang  claes,  and  the  shawl. 
Blin’,  blin’,  maun  they  be,  who  see  not  the  finger  o’  God  in 
this  thing ! ” 

8.  Hannah  started  up  from  her  '‘'swoon,  and,  looking 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


283 


wildly  aroundj  cried,  “ Oh ! the  bird  ! the  bird ! the  eagle ! 
the  eagle  has  carried  off  my  bonnie  wee  Walter!  is  there 
nane  to  pursue?”  A neighbor  put  her  baby  to  her  breast, 
and,  shutting  her  eyes,  and  smiting  her  forehead,  the  sorely 
bewildered  creature  said,  in  a low  voice,  “Am  I wauken? 
oh  I tell  me  if  I am  wauken  ? or  if  a’  this  be  the  wark  o’  a 
fever,  and  the  delirium  o’  a dream  ! ” 


CX.— THE  DEAD  EAGLE. 

1.  It  is  a desolate  eve; 

Dim,  cheerless  is  the  scene  my  path  around ; 

■^Patters  the  rain;  the  breeze-stirred  forests  grieve; 

And  wails  the  scene  with  '•'melancholy  sound, 

While  at  my  feet,  behold, 

With  vigorous  '•'talons  '•'clinched,  and  bright  eyes  shut, 
With  proud,  curved  beak,  and  wiry  '^'plumage  bold, 

Thou  liest,  dead  eagle  of  the  desert;  but 
Preserving  yet,  in  look,  thy  tameless  mood. 

As  if,  though  stilled  by  death,  thy  heart  were  unsubdued. 

2.  How  cam’st  thou  to  thy  death? 

Did  '•'lapsing  years  o’ercome,  and  leave  thee  weak. 

Or  whirlwinds,  on  thy  heaven-descending  path, 

Dash  thee  against  the  precipice’s  peak? 

’Mid  rack  and  floating  cloud, 

Did  scythe-winged  lightning  flash  '•'athwart  thy  brain, 
And  drive  thee  from  thy  elevation  proud, 

Down  whirling,  lifeless,  to  the  dim-seen  plain? 

I know  not,  may  not  guess ; but  here  alone 

Lifeless  thou  liest,  outstretched  beside  the  desert  stone. 

3.  A proud  life  hath  been  thine: 

High  on  the  herbless  rock,  thou  ’wok’st  to  birth, 

And,  gazing  down,  saw  far  beneath  thee  shine 
Outstretched,  '•'horizon-girt,  the  map-like  earth. 

What  rapture  must  have  gushed 
Warm  round  thy  heart,  when  first  thy  wings  '•'essayed, 
■•'Adventurously,  their  heavenward  flight,  and  rushed 
Up  toward  day’s  blazing  eye-star,  undismayed, 

Above  thee,  space’s  vacancy  unfurled. 

And,  far  receding  down,  the  dim,  materi.al  world! 


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4.  How  fast,  how  far,  how  long, 

Thine  hath  it  been,  from  cloud-veiled  '‘'aerie  high, 

To  '•'swoop,  and  still  the  wood-lark’s  '•'lyric  song. 

The  'tleveret’s  gambols,  and  the  lambkin’s  cry? 

The  terror  stricken  dove 

'•'Cowered  down  amid  the  oak-wood’s  '•'central  shade, 
While  '•'ferny  glens  below,  and  cliffs  above. 

To  thy  fierce  shriek,  'tresponsive  echo  made. 

Carrying  the  wild  alarm  from  vale  to  vale. 

That  thou,  the  forest  king,  wert  out  upon  the  gale ! 

5.  When  wooded  glens  were  dark, 

And  o’er  moist  earth,  glowed  morning’s  rosy  star. 

High  o’er  the  scarce  '•'tinged  clouds,  ’twas  thine  to  mark 
The  orient  chariot  of  the  sun  afar  : 

And  oh ! how  grand  to  soar 
Beneath  the  full  moon,  on  full  pinion  driven; 

To  pierce  the  regions  of  gray  cloud-land  o’er. 

And  drift  amid  the  star-isled  seas  of  heaven ! 

Even  like  a courier,  sent  from  earth  to  hold 

With  '•'space-dissevered  worlds,  unawed,  communion  bold. 

6 Dead  king  bird  of  the  waste! 

And  is  thy  '•'curbless  span  of  freedom  o’er? 

No  more  shall  thine  ascending  form  be  traced? 

And  shall  the  hunter  of  the  hills  no  more 
Hark  to  thy  regal  cry. 

While  soaring  o’er  the  '•'stream-girt  vales,  thy  form, 
Lessening,  '•'commingles  with  the  azure  sky, 

(flimpsed  ’mid  the  masses  of  the  gathering  storm. 

As  if  it  were  thy  proud  resolve  to  see, 

Betwixt  thee  and  dim  earth,  the  '•'zigzag  lightnings  flee? 

T A child  of  freedom  thou. 

Thy  birthright  the  tall  cliff  and  sky  beyond : 

Thy  feet  were  fetterless;  thy  fearless  brow, 

Ne’er  '•'quailing,  tyrant  man’s  dominion  owned. 

But  nature’s  general  law 
The  slave  and  freeman  must  alike  obey: 

Pride  reels ; and  Power,  that  kept  a world  in  awe, 

The  dreadful  summons  hears;  and  where  are  they? 
Vanished,  like  night-dreams,  from  the  sleeper’s  mind. 
Dust,  ’mid  dissolving  day,  or  clouds  before  the  wind! 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


285 


CXI.--NORTII  AMERICAN  INDIANS. 

From  Sprague. 

1.  Not  many  generations  ago,  where  you  now  sit,  '‘'encir- 
cled with  all  that  exalts  and  '‘'embellishes  civilized  life,  the 
rank  thistle  nodded  in  the  wind,  and  the  wild  fox  dug  his 
hole  unscared.  Here,  lived  and  loved  another  race  of  beings. 
Beneath  the  same  sun  that  rolls  over  your  head,  the  Indian 
hunter  pursued  the  panting  deer;  gazing  on  the  same  moon 
that  smiles  for  you,  the  Indian  lover  wooed  his  '•'dusky  mate. 
Here,  the  wigwam  blaze  beamed  on  the  tender  and  helpless, 
and  the  council-fire  glared  on  the  wise  and  daring.  Now,  they 
dipped  their  noble  limbs  in  your  '•'sedgy  lakes,  and  now,  they 
paddled  the  light  canoe  along  your  rocky  shores.  Here,  they 
warred ; the  echoing  '•'whoop,  the  bloody  '•'grapple,  the  defying 
death-song,  all  were  here ; and  when  the  tiger-strife  was  over, 
here,  curled  the  smoke  of  peace. 

2.  Here,  too,  they  worshiped ; and  from  many  a dark 
bosom  went  up  a fervent  prayer  to  the  Great  Spirit.  He  had 
not  written  his  laws  for  them  on  tables  of  stone,  but  he  had 
traced  them  on  the  tables  of  their  hearts.  The  poor  child  of 
nature  knew  not  the  God  of  Revelation,  but  the  God  of  the 
'•■universe  he  acknowledged  in  every  thing  around.  He  beheld 
him  in  the  star  that  sank  in  beauty  behind  his  lonely  dwelling ; 
in  the  sacred  orb  that  flamed  on  him  from  his  midday  throne; 
in  the  flower  that  snapped  in  the  morning  breeze ; in  the  lofty 
pine  that  defied  a thousand  whirlwinds ; in  the  timid  '•'warbler 
that  never  left  its  native  grove;  in  the  fearless  eagle,  whose 
untired  '•'pinion  was  wet  in  clouds;  in  the  worm  that  crawled 
at  his  feet;  and  in  his  own  '•'matchless  form,  glowing  with  a 

•spark  of  that  light,  to  whose  mysterious  source  he  bent  in 
humble,  though  blind  adoration. 

3.  And  all  this  has  passed  away.  Across  the  ocean  came 
a ■•'pilgrim  bark,  bearing  the  seeds  of  life  and  death.  The 
former  were  sown  for  you ; the  latter  sprang  up  in  the  path 
of  the  simple  native.  Two  hundred  years  have  changed  the 
character  of  a great  continent,  and  blotted  forever  from  its 
face,  a whole,  peculiar  people.  Art  has  '•'usurped  the  bowers 
of  nature,  and  the  anointed  children  of  education  have  been 
too  powerful  for  the  tribes  of  the  ignorant.  Here  and  there,  a 

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stricken  few  remain ; but  how  unlike  their  bold,  untamable 
'^progenitors..  The  Indian  of '‘'falcon  glance  and  lion  bearing. 
the  '‘'theme  of  the  touching  ballad,  the  hero  of  the  pathetic 
tale,  is  gone  ! and  his  degraded  '‘'offspring  crawls  upon  the  soil 
where  he  walked  in  majesty,  to  remind  us  how  miserable  is 
man,  when  the  foot  of  the  conqueror  is  on  his  neck. 

4.  As  a race,  they  have  withered  from  the  land.  Their 
arrows  are  broken,  their  springs  are  dried  up,  their  cabins  are 
in  the  dust.  Their  '‘'council-fire  has  long  since  gone  out  on 
the  shore,  and  their  war-cry  is  fast  fading  to  the  untrodden 
west.  Slowly  and  sadly  they  climb  the  distant  mountains, 
and  read  their  doom  in  the  setting  sun.  They  are  shrinking 
before  the  mighty  tide  which  is  prcvssing  them  away;  they 
must  soon  hear  the  roar  of  the  last  wave,  which  will  settle 
over  them  forever.  Ages  hence,  the  '‘'inquisitive  white  man, 
as  he  stands  by  some  growing  city,  will  ponder  on  the  '‘'struct- 
ure of  their  disturbed  remains,  and  wonder  to  what  manner 
of  persons  they  belonged.  They  will  live  only  in  the  songs 
and  '‘'chronicles  of  their  '‘'exterminators.  Let  these  be  faith- 
ful to  their  rude  virtues,  as  men,  and  pay  due  tribute  to  their 
unhappy  fate,  as  a people. 


CXII.— RED  JACKET,  THE  INDIAN  CHIEF. 

From  Halleck. 

Fitz  Greene  Halleck,  a native  of  Coiineoticut ; he  has  written  little,, 
but  ranks  high  among  American  poets. 

Rob  Roy  and  Robin  Hood;  celebrated  outlaws,  the  one  of  Scotland, 
the  other  of  England.  Upas  ; a poisonous  tree  which  grows  in  India. 

1.  Thou  wert  a monarch  born.  Tradition’s  pages 

Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree, 

Hut  that  the  forest  tribe  have  bent  for  ages, 

To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 

2.  Thy  name  is  princely,  though  no  pcet’s  '‘'magic 

Could  make  Red  Jacket  grace  an  English  rhyme. 
Unless  he  had  a genius  for  the  tragic. 

And  introduced  it  into  '‘'pantomime. 

3.  Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  thine  own  land;  and  on  her  herald  roll, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


287 


As  nobly  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a token 
As  ^CcEUR  DE  Lion’s,  of  a warrior’s  soul. 

4.  Thy  +garb — though  Austria’s  bcsora-star  would  frighten 

That  metal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine. 

And  George  the  Fourth  wore  in  the  dance  at  Brighton, 
A more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine; 

5.  Yet  ’tis  a brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 

And  fitted  for  a couch  on  field  and  flood. 

As  Rob  Roy’s  tartan  for  the  Highland  "‘'heather, 

Or  forest  green  for  England’s  Robin  Hood. 

6.  Is  strength  a monarch’s  merit,  like  a whaler’s? 

Thou  art  as  tall,  as  "‘'sinewy,  and  as  strong 
As  earth’s  first  kings — the  Argo’s  gallant  sailors, 
"‘'Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 

7.  Is  eloquence  ? Her  spell  is  thine,  that  reaches 

The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport ; 

And  there’s  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches — 
The  secret  of  their  "‘'mastery — they  are  short. 

8.  Is  beauty  ? Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed ; 

But  the  "‘'love-legends  of  thy  manhood’s  years, 

And  she  who  perished,  young  and  broken-hearted, 

Are — but  I rhyme  for  smiles,  and  not  for  tears. 

9.  The  monarch  mind, — the  mystery  of  commanding, 

The  godlike  power,  the  art  Napoleon, 

Of  winning,  fettering,  "‘'molding,  "‘'wielding,  banding. 
The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one ; 

10,  Thou  hast  it.  At  thy  bidding,  men  have  crowded 
The  road  to  death  as  to  a "‘'festival; 

And  minstrel-minds,  without  a blush,  have  "‘"shrouded 
With  "‘"banner-folds  of  glory,  their  dark  pall. 

IL  Who  will  believe — not  I — for  in  deceiving 

Lies  the  dear  charin  of  life’s  delightful  dream; 

I can  not  spare  the  "’"luxury  of  believing 

That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem: — 

12.  Who  would  believe  that,  with  a smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  "‘'patriarch’s,  soothe  a dying  hour, 
With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  as  "‘'caressing, 

As  e’er  won  maiden’s  lip  in  moonlight  bower; 


^ Cceur  de  Lion,  (pro,  Kur  de  Lee' on.)  lion-hearted,  a name  given  to 
Richard  I,  of  England. 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


13.  With  look,  like  patient  Job’s,  ^eschewing  evil; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a bird’s  in  air, 

Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  '•'veriest  devil, 

That  e’er  clinched  fingers  in  a captive’s  hair? 

14.  That  in  thy  veins  there  springs  a poison  fountain, 

Deadlier  than  that  which  bathes  the  Upas-tree : 
And,  in  thy  wrath,  a nursing  cat  o’  mountain 
Is  calm  as  her  babe’s  sleep  compared  with  thee? 

15.  And,  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean’s, 

Its  lips  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 
Slumbers  a whirlwind  of  the  heart’s  '•'emotions. 

Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow, — all,  save  fear. 

16.  Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 

Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  '•'tomahawk  in  wars ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water ; 

Pride — in  thy  rifle-trophies  and  thy  scars ; 

17.  Hope — that  thy  wrongs  will  be,  by  the  Great  Spirit, 

Remembered  and  '•'revenged,  when  thou  art  gone ; 
Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne. 


CXHI.— THE  TWINS. 

From  Wilson. 

Manse;  a clergyman’s  house. 

1.  The  Kirk  of  Auchindown  stands,  with  its  burials 
ground,  on  a little,  green  hill,  surrounded  by  an  irregular 
and  straggling  village,  or  rather  about  a hundred  '•'hamlets 
clustering  round  it,  with  their  fields  and  gardens.  A few  of 
these  gardens  come  close  up  to  the  church-yard  wall,  and,  in 
spring-time,  many  of  the  fruit-trees  bang,  rich  and  beautiful, 
over  the  '•'adjacent  graves.  The  voices  and  the  laughter  of 
the  children  at  play  on  the  green  before  the  parish  school,  or 
their  composed  murmur,  when  at  their  various  lessons  to- 
gether in  the  room,  may  be  distinctly  heard  all  over  the 
burial-ground.  So  may  the  song  of  the  maidens  going  to 
the  well ; while  all  around,  the  singing  of  birds  is  thick  and 
hurried ; and  a small  rivulet,  as  if  brought  there  to  be  an 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


289 


'♦'emblem  of  passing  time,  glides  away  beneath  the  mossy 
wall,  '♦'murmuring  continually  a dream-like  tune  round  the 
dwellings  of  the  dead. 

2.  In  the  quiet  of  the  evening,  my  venerable  friend  took 
me  with  him  into  the  church-yard.  We  walked  to  the 
eastern  corner,  where,  as  we  approached,  I saw  a monument 
standing  almost  by  itself,  and,  even  at  that  distance,  appear- 
ing to  be  of  a somewhat  different  character  from  any  other 
in  the  burial-ground.  And  now  we  stood  close  to,  and  be- 
fore it.  It  was  a low  '♦'monument  of  the  purest  white  marble ; 
simple,  but  perfectly  elegant  and  graceful  withal,  and  upon 
its  unadorned  slab,  lay  the  '♦'sculptured  images  of  two  children 
asleep  in  each  other’s  arms. 

3.  Around  it,  was  a small  piece  of  the  greenest  ground, 
without  the  protection  of  any  rail,  but  obviously  belonging 
to  the  monument.  It  shone,  without  offending  them,  among 
simpler  or  ruder  burial-beds  round  about  it ; and,  although 
the  costliness  of  the  materials,  the  affecting  beauty  of  the 
design,  and  the  delicacy  of  its  execution,  all  showed  that 
there  slept  the  offspring  neither  of  the  poor  nor  low  in  life, 
yet  so  meekly  and  sadly  did  it  lift  up  its  unstained  little 
walls,  and  so  well  5id  its  unusual  elegance  meet  and  blend 
with  the  character  of  the  common  tombs,  that  no  heart  could 
see  it  without  sympathy,  and  without  owning,  that  it  was  a 
pathetic  ornament  of  a place,  filled  with  the  ruder  '♦'memori- 
als of  the  very  humblest  dead. 

4.  “Six  years  ago,”  said  my  '♦'venerable  companion,  “I 
was  an  old  man,  and  wished  to  have  silence  and  stillness  in 
my  house,  that  my  communion  with  Him  before  whom  I ex- 
pected every  day  to  be  called,  might  be  undisturbed.  Accord- 
ingly, my  Manse,  that  used  to  ring  with  boyish  '♦'glee,  was  now 
quiet;  when,  a lady,  elegant,  graceful,  beautiful,  young,  and 
a widow,  came  to  my  dwelling,  and  her  soft,  sweet,  silver 
voice,  told  me  that  she  was  from  England.  She  was  the 
■♦'relict  of  an  officer  slain  in  war  ; and  having  heard  one  who 
had  lived  in  my  house,  speak  of  his  happy  and  innocent  time 
there,  she  earnestly  requested  me  to  receive  beneath  my  roof, 
her  two  sons.  She,  herself,  lived  with  the  bed-ridden  mother 
of  her  dead  husband;  and  anxious  for  the  growing  minds  of 
her  boys,  she  sought  to  commit  them,  for  a short  time,  to  my 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


care.  They  and  their  mother  soon  won  an  old  man’s  heart, 
and  I could  say  nothing  in  '^'opposition  to  her  request,  but 
that  I was  upward  of  three-score  and  ten  years  old.  But  I 
am  living  still;  and  that  is  their  monument.” 

5.  We  sat  down  at  these  words,  on  the  sloping  head-stone 
of  the  grave,  just  opposite  to  this  little,  beautiful  "^structure ; 
and  without  entreaty,  and  as  if  to  bring  back  upon  his  heart 
the  delight  of  old,  tender  remembrances,  the  venerable  man 
thus  continued. 

6.  “ The  lady  left  them  with  me  in  the  Manse ; surely 
the  two  most  beautiful  and  engaging  creatures  that  ever  died 
in  youth.  They  were  twins.  Like  were  they  unto  each 
other,  as  two  bright-plumaged  doves  of  one  color,  or  two 
flowers  with  the  same  blossom  and  the  same  leaves.  They 
were  dressed  alike,  and  whatever  they  wore,  in  that  did  they 
seem  more  especially  beautiful.  Their  hair  was  the  same,  a 
bright  auburn ; their  voices  were  as  one  ; so  that  the  twins 
were  '^inseparable  in  my  love,  whether  I beheld  them,  or  my 
dim  eyes  were  closed. 

7.  “From  the  first  hour  they  were  left  alone  with  me,  and 
without  their  mother  in  the  Manse,  did  I begin  to  love  them; 
nor  were  they  slow  in  returning  an  old  man’s  affection.  They 
stole  up  to  my  side,  and  submitted  their  smooth,  "^glossy, 
leaning  heads  to  my  withered  and  trembling  hand ; nor,  for 
awhile,  could  I tell,  as  the  sweet  beings  came  gliding  '^glad- 
somely  near  me,  which  was  Edward  and  which  was  Henry; 
and  often  did  they,  in  winning  playfulness,  try  to  deceive  my 
loving  heart.  But  they  could  not  defraud  each  other  of  their 
tenderness;  for  whatever  the  one  received,  that  was  ready  to 
be  '^bestowed  upon  the  other.  To  love  the  one  more  than  the 
other  was  impossible. 

8.  “ Sweet  creatures  ! It  was  not  long  before  I learned  to 
distinguish  them.  That  which  seemed  to  me,  at  first,  so  per- 
fectly the  same,  soon  unfolded  itself  with  many  delightful 
“^varieties,  and  then  I wondered  how  I ever  could  have  mis- 
taken them  for  one  another.  Different  shadows  played  upon 
their  hair ; that  of  the  one  being  silky  and  smooth,  and  of  the 
other  slightly  curled  at  the  edges,  and  '^'clustering  thickly, 
when  he  flung  back  his  locks  in  playfulness  or  joy.  His 
eyes,  though  of  a hazel  hue,  like  those  of  his  brother,  were 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


291 


considerably  lighter,  and  a smile  seemed  native  there;  while 
those  of  the  other  seemed  almost  dark,  and  fitter  for  the  mist 
of  tears.  Dimples  marked  the  cheeks  of  the  one,  but  those 
of  the  other  were  paler  and  smooth. 

9.  ‘‘Their  voices  too,  when  I listened  to  them,  and  knew 
their  character,  had  a faint,  '^'fluctuating  difference  of  inflection 
and  tone,  like  the  same  instrument  blown  upon  with  a some- 
what stronger  or  weaker  breath.  Their  very  laugh  grew  to  be 
different  to  my  ear;  that  of  the  one,  free  and  more  frequent, 
that  of  the  other,  mild  in  its  utmost  glee.  And  they  had  not 
been  many  days  in  the  Manse,  before  I knew  in  a moment, 
dim  as  my  eyes  had  long  been,  the  soft,  timid,  stealing  step 
of  Edward,  from  the  dancing  and  fearless  motion  of  Henry 
Howard.” 

10.  Here  the  old  man  paused,  not  as  it  seemed  from  any 
fatigue  in  speaking  so  long,  but  as  if  to  indulge  more  pro- 
foundly in  his  remembrance  of  the  children  whom  he  had  so 
tenderly  loved.  He  fixed  his  dim  eyes  on  their  '^'sculptured 
images,  with  as  fond  an  expression  as  if  they  had  been  alive, 
and  had  lain  down  there  to  sleep ; and  when,  without  looking 
on  me,  whom  he  felt  to  have  been  listening  with  a quiet  at- 
tention, he  again  began  to  speak,  it  was  partly  to  tell  the  tale 
of  these  fair  sleepers,  and  partly  to  give  vent  to  his  loving  grief. 

11.  “All  strangers,  even  many  who  thought  they  knew 
them  well,  were  pleasantly  perplexed  with  the  faces  and  figures 
of  the  bright  English  twins.  The  poor  beggars,  as  they  went 
their  rounds,  blessed  them,  without  knowing  whether  it  was 
Edward  or  Henry  that  had  bestowed  his  alms.  Even  the 
mother  of  the  cottage  children  with  whom  they  played,  con- 
fused their  images  in  her  affectionate  heart,  as  she  named 
them  in  her  prayers.  When  only  one  was  present,  it  gave 
a start  of  strange  delight  to  them  who  did  not  know  the 
twins,  to  see  another  creature,  so  beautifully  the  same,  come 
gliding  in  upon  them,  and  join  his  brother  in  a share  of  their 
suddenly  bestowed  affection. 

12.  “They  soon  came  to  love,  with  all  their  hearts,  the 
place  of  their  new  habitation.  Not  even  in  their  own  merry 
England,  had  their  young  eyes  ever  seen  brighter  green  fields ; 
trees  more  '•'umbrageous ; or,  perhaps,  even  '•'rural  gardens 
more  flowery  and  blossoming,  than  those  of  this  Scottish 


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NEW  SIXTH  RE  ADEE. 


village.  They  had  lived,  indeed,  mostly  in  a town  ; and  in  the 
midst  of  the  freshness  and  '•'balminess  of  the  country,  they 
became  happier  and  more  '•'gleesome ; it  was  said,  by  many, 
even  more  beautiful.  The  affectionate  creatures  did  not  forget 
their  mother.  '^Alternately  did  they  write  to  her  every  week, 
and  every  week  did  one  or  other  receive  from  her  a letter, 
in  which  the  sweetest  maternal  feelings  were  traced,  in  small, 
delicate  lines,  that  bespoke  the  hand  of  an  accomplished  lady. 

13.  Their  education  had  not  been  neglected  ; and  they 
learned  every  thing  they  were  taught  with  a surprising  quick- 
ness and  docility.  Morning  and  evening  too,  did  they  kneel 
down  with  clasped  hands — these  lovely  twins — even  at  my 
feet,  and  resting  on  my  knees ; and  '^melodiously  did  they 
murmur  together  the  hymns  which  their  mother  had  taught 
them,  and  passages  selected  from  the  Scriptures.  And  always, 
the  last  thing  they  did  before  going  to  sleep  in  each  other’s 
arms,  was  to  look  at  their  mother’s  picture,  and  to  kiss  it  with 
fond  kisses,  and  many  an  endearing  name.” 

14.  Just  then  two  birds  alighted  softly  on  the  white  mar- 
ble monument,  and  began  to  trim  their  plumes.  They  were 
doves  from  their  nests  in  the  '^belfry  of  the  '’'spire,  from  which 
a low,  deep  '’'plaintive  murmuring  was  now  heard  to  come, 
deepening  the  profound  silence  of  the  burying-ground.  The 
two  bright  birds  walked  about  for  a few  minutes,  around  the 
image  of  the  children,  or  stood  quietly  at  their  feet;  and  then, 
clapping  their  wings,  flew  up  and  disappeared.  The  incident, 
though  at  any  other  time,  common  and  uninteresting,  had  a 
strange  effect  upon  my  heart,  and  seemed  dimly  '’'emblematic 
of  the  innocence  and  beauty  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  tomb, 
and  of  the  flight  of  their  innocent  souls  to  heaven. 


CXIV.— THE  TWINS— CONCLUDED.  • 

1.  “One  evening  in  early  autumn,  (they  had  been  with 
me  from  the  middle  of  May,)  Edward,  the  elder,  complained, 
on  going  to  bed,  of  a sore  throat,  and  I proposed  that  his 
brother  should  sleep  in  another  bed.  I saw  them  myself, 
accordingly,  in  separate  places  of  repose.  But  on  going, 
about  an  hour  afterward,  into  their  room,  there  I found  them. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


293 


Jocked,  as  usual,  in  each  other’s  arms,  face  to  face;  and  their 
innocent  breath  mingling  from  lips  that  nearly  touched.  I 
could  not  find  heart  to  separate  them ; nor  could  I have  done 
so  without  awaking  Edward.  His  cheeks  were  red  and  flushed, 
and  his  sleep  broken  and  full  of  starts. 

2.  “ Early  in  the  morning,  I went  to  their  bedside.  Henry 
was  lying  apart  from  his  brother,  looking  at  him  with  a tear- 
ful face,  and  his  little  arm  laid  so  as  to  touch  his  bosom.  Ed- 
ward was  unable  to  rise.  His  throat  was  painful,  his  pulse 
high,  and  his  heart  sick.  Before  evening  he  became  slightly 
'’'delirious,  and  his  illness  was  evidently  a fever  of  a danger- 
ous and  ■’'malignant  kind.  He  was,  as  I told  you,  a bold  and 
gladsome  child ; when  not  at  his  task,  dancing  and  singing 
almost  every  hour;  but  the  fever  quickly  '’'subdued  his  spirit; 
the  ■’'shivering  fits  made  him  weep  and  wail ; and  ’’'rueful  in- 
deed was  the  change  which  a single  night  and  day  had  brought 
forth. 

3.  His  brother  seemed  to  be  afraid  more  than  children 
usually  are  of  sickness,  which  they  are  always  slow  to  link 
with  the  thoughts  of  death.  But  he  told  me,  weeping,  that 
his  eldest  brother  had  died  of  a fever,  and  that  his  mother 
was  always  alarmed  about  that  disease.  ^ Did  I think,’  asked 
he,  with  wild  eyes  and  a ’’'palpitating  heart,  ^did  I think  that 
Edward  was  going  to  die?  ’ I looked  at  the  affectionate  child, 
and  taking  him  to  iny  bosom,  I felt  that  his  own  blood  was 
beating  but  too  quickly,  and,  that  fatal  had  been  that  night’s 
sleeping  embrace  in  his  brother’s  bosom.  The  fever  had 
tainted  his  sweet  veins  also,  and  I had  soon  to  lay  him  shiv- 
ering on  his  bed.  In  another  day,  he  too  was  delirious,  and 
too  plainly  chasing  his  brother  into  the  grave. 

4.  Never  in  the  purest  hours  of  their  healthful  happi- 
ness, had  their  innocent  natures  seemed  to  me  more  beautiful, 
than  now,  in  their  delirium.  As  it  increased,  all  '’'vague  fears 
of  dying  left  their  souls,  and  they  kept  talking  as  if  to  each 
other,  of  every  thing  here  or  in  England,  that  was  pleasant 
and  interesting.  Now  and  then,  they  murmured  the  names 
of  persons  of  whom  I had  not  formerly  heard  them  speak; 
friends  who  had  been  kind  to  them  before  I had  known  of 
their  existence,  and  servants  in  their  mother’s  or  their  fa- 
ther’s ■’’household.  Of  their  mother  they  spoke  to  themselves, 

25 


294 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


although  necessarily  kept  apart,  almost  in  the  very  same 
words,  expecting  a visit  from  her  at  the  '^Manse,  and  then 
putting  out  their  little  hands  to  embrace  her.  Ah'  their  lit- 
tle, innocent  plays  were  acted  over  and  over  again,  on  the 
bed  of  death.  They  were  looking  into  the  nests  of  the  little 
singing-birds,  which  they  never  injured,  in  the  hedge-rows 
and  the  woods.  And  the  last  intelligible  words  that  I heard 
Edward  utter  were  these — ^ Let  us  go,  brother,  to  the 
church-yard,  and  lie  down  on  the  daisies,  among  the  little, 
green  mounds ! ’ 

5.  “ They  died  within  an  hour  of  each  other.  I lifted  up 
Henry,  when  I saw  he  too  was  dead,  and  laid  him  down 
beside  his  brother.  There  lay  the  twins,  and  had  their 
mother  at  that  hour  come  into  the  room,  she  would  have  been 
thankful  to  see  that  sight,  for  she  would  have  thought  that 
her  children  were  in  a calm  and  refreshing  sleep!” 

6.  My  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  sculptured  images  of  the 
dead,  lying  side  by  side,  with  their  faces  turned  to  heaven; 
their  little  hands  folded,  as  in  prayer,  upon  their  bosoms,  and 
their  eyelids  closed.  The  old  man  drew  a sigh,  almost  like 
a sob,  and  wept.  They  had  been  '^'intrusted  to  his  care ; they 
had  come  smilingly  from  another  land ; for  one  summer  they 
were  happy,  and  then  disappeared,  like  fading  flowers,  from 
the  earth.  I wished  that  the  old  man  would  cease  his  touch- 
ing narrative,  both  for  his  sake  and  my  own.  So  I rose,  and 
walked  up  quite  close  to  the  monument,  inspecting  the  spirit 
of  its  design,  and  marking  the  finish  of  its  execution.  But 
he  called  me  to  him,  and  requesting  me  to  resume  my  seat 
beside  him  on  the  grave-stone,  he  thus  continued : 

7.  “I  had  written  to  their  mother  in  England,  that  the 
children  were  in  extreme  danger ; but  it  was  not  possible 
that  she  could  arrive  in  time  to  see  them  die;  not  even  to 
see  them  buried.  Decay  was  fast  preying  upon  them,  and 
the  beauty  of  death  was  beginning  to  disappear ; so  we  could 
not  wait  the  arrival  of  their  mother,  and  iheir  grave  was 
made.  Even  the  old,  gray-headed  sexton  wept;  for  in  this 
case  of  '^mortality,  there  was  something  to  break  in  upon  the 
ordinary  "^tenor  of  his  thoughts,  and  to  stir  up  in  his  heart, 
feelings  that  he  could  not  have  known  existed  there.  There 
was  sadness,  indeed,  over  all  the  parish  for  the  fair  English 


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295 


twins,  who  had  come  to  live  in  the  Manse  after  all  the  other 
boys  had  left  it:  and  who,  as  they  were  the  last,  so  were  they 
the  loveliest  of  all  my  flock.  The  very  sound,  or  '•'accent  of 
their  southern  voices,  so  pretty  and  engaging  to  our  ears,  in 
the  simplicity  of  childhood,  had  won  many  a heart,  and 
touched,  too,  the  imaginations  cf  many  with  a new  delight; 
and,  therefore,  on  the  mornm^^  when  they  were  buried,  it 
may  he  said  there  was  here  a fast-day  of  grief. 

8.  “ The  next  day  their  mother  arrived  at  the  Manse. 
She  knew,  before  she  came,  that  her  children  were  dead  and 
buried.  It  is  true  that  she  wept,  and  at  the  sight  of  the 
grave, — for  Ihey  both  lay  in  one  coffin, — her  grief  was  pas- 
sionate and  bitter.  But  that  flt  soon  passed  away.  Her  tears 
were  tears  of  pity  for  them,  but,  as  for  herself,  she  hoped 
that  she  was  soon  to  see  them  in  heaven.  Her  face  pale,  yet 
flushed ; her  eyes  hollow,  yet  bright ; and  general  languor 
and  '•'lassitude  over  her  whole  frame,  all  told  that  she  was  in 
the  first  stage  of  a consumption.  Soon,  other  duties  called 
her  back  to  England,  for  the  short  remainder  of  her  life. 
She  herself  drew  the  design  of  that  monument  with  her  own 
hand,  and  left  it  with  me  when  she  went  away.  I soon  heard 
of  her  death.  Her  husband  lies  near  Grenada,  in  Spain; 
she  lies  in  the  '•'chancel  of  the  '•'cathedral  of  Salisbury,  in 
England;  and  there,  sleep  her  twins,  in  the  little  buriab 
ground  of  Auchindown,  a Scottish  parish.” 


CXV.— MY  MOTHER’S  PICTURE. 

From  Cowper. 

1.  O THAT  those  lips  had  language ! Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly,  since  I heard  them  last. 

My  mother,  when  I learned  that  thou  wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  '•'conscious  of  the  tears  I shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o’er  thy  sorrowing  son, 

Wretch  even  then,  life’s  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a kiss. 
Perhaps  a tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss 

Ah,  that  '•'maternal  smile  ! it  answers — Yes ! 

2.  I heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day; 

I saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a last  adieu  ! 

But  was  it  such?  It  was.  Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a sound  unknown, 

And,  if  I meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more. 

3.  Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  '•'concern, 
Oft  gave*me  promise  of  thy  quick  return; 

What  ardently  I wished,  I long  believed ; 

And  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived; 

By  expectation,  every  day  '•'beguiled, 

'•'Dupe  of  to-morrow^  even  when  a child. 

Thus  many  a sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 

I learned  at  last,  submission  to  my  lot; 

But,  though  I less  '•'deplored  thee,  ne’er  forgot. 

4.  My  boast  is  not,  that  I derive  my  birth 

From  loins  '•'enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  '•'pretensions  rise. 

The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 

And  now,  farewell ! Time,  '•'unrevoked,  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I wished  is  done. 

5.  By  '•'contemplation’s  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o’er  again;  . 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of '•'violating  thine; 

And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free. 

And  I can  view  this  '•'mimic  show  of  thee, 

Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft: 

Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  '•'soothe  me  left. 


BXVI.— AN  EVENING  ADVENTURE. 

1.  ]!^ot  long  since,  a gentleman  was  traveling  in  one  of  the 
fcounties  of  Virginia,  and  about  the  close  of  the  day  stopped 
at  a public  house  to  obtain  refreshment  and  spend  the  night. 
He  had  been  there  but  a short  time,  before  an  old  man  alighted 
from  his  gig,  with  the  '•'apparent  intention  of  becoming  his  fel- 
low guest  at  the  same  house. 

2.  As  the  old  man  drove  up,  he  observed  that  both  the 


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297 


shafts  of  his  gig  were  broken,  and  that  they  were  held  to- 
gether by  withes,  formed  from  the  bark  of  a hickory  sap- 
ling. Our  traveler  observed  further,  that  he  was  plainly 
clad,  that  his  knee  buckles  were  loosened,  and  that  some- 
thing like  negligence  '^'pervaded  his  dress.  Conceiving  him 
to  be  one  of  the  honest  '^yeomanry  of  our  land,  the  '^courte- 
sies of  strangers  passed  between  them,  and  they  entered  the 
tavern.  It  was  about  the  same  time,  that  an  addition  of 
three  or  four  young  gentlemen,  was  made  to  their  number 
most,  if  not  all  of  them,  of  the  legal  profession. 

3.  As  soon  as  they  became  conveniently  '^'accommodated, 
the  conversation  was  turned,  by  one  of  the  latter,  upon  the 
eloquent  harangue  which  had  that  day  been  displayed  at  the 
bar.  It  was  replied  by  the  other,  that  he  had  witnessed, 
the  same  day,  a degree  of  eloquence,  no  doubt  equal,  but  it 
was  from  the  pulpit.  Something  like  a "^sarcastic  "trejoinder 
was  made  as  to  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit,  and  a warm  and 
able  '‘'altercation  ensued,  in  which  the  merits  of  the  Christian 
religion  became  the  subject  of '^discussion.  From  six  o’clock 
until  eleven,  the  young  champions  wielded  the  sword  of  ar- 
gument, adducing  with  ingenuity  and  ability  every  thing 
that  could  be  said  pro  and  con. 

4.  During  this  protracted  period,  the  old  gentleman  list- 
ened with  the  meekness  and  modesty  of  a child,  as  if  he  were 
adding  new  information  to  the  stores  of  his  own  mind;  or 
perhaps  he  was  observing  with  a '^philosophic  eye,  the  '‘'facul- 
ties of  the  youthful  mind,  and  how  new  '‘'energies  are  '‘'evolved 
by  repeated  action  ; or  perhaps,  with  patriotic  emotion,  he 
was  reflecting  upon  the  future  destinies  of  his  country,  and 
on  the  rising  generation,  upon  whom  those  future  destinies 
must  '‘'devolve ; or,  most  probably,  with  a sentiment  of  moral 
and  religious  feeling,  he  was  collecting  an  '‘'argument  which 
no  art  would  be  “able  to  elude,  and  no  force  to  resist.”  Our 
traveler  remained  a spectator,  and  took  no  part  in  what  was 
said. 

5.  At  last,  one  of  the  young  men,  remarking  that  it  was 
impossible  to  combat  with  long  and  established  '‘'prejudices, 
wheeled  around,  and  with  some  familiarity,  exclaimed,  “Well, 
my  old  gentleman,  what  think  you  of  these  things?”  If, 
said  the  traveler,  a streak  of  vivid  lightning  had  at  that 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


moment  crossed  tlie  room,  their  amazement  could  not  have 
been  greater  than  it  was  from  what  followed.  The  most  elo- 
quent and  unanswerable  appeal  that  he  had  ever  heard  or  read, 
was  made  for  nearly  an  hour,  by  the  old  gentleman.  So  perfect 
was  his  recollection,  that  every  argument  urged  against  the 
Christian  religion,  was  met  in  the  order  in  which  it  was  ad- 
vanced. Hume’s  '’'sophistry  on  the  subject  of  miracles,  was, 
if  possible,  more  perfectly  answered,  than  it  had  already 
been  done  by  Campbell.  And  in  the  whole  lecture  there  was 
so  much  simplicity  and  energy,  '’'pathos  and  sublimity,  that 
not  another  word  was  uttered. 

6.  An  attempt  to  describe  it,  said  the  traveler,  would  be 
an  attempt  to  paint  the  sunbeams.  It  was  now  a matter  of 
curiosity  and  inquiry,  who  the  old  gentleman  was.  The 
traveler  concluded  that  it  was  the  preacher  from  whom  the 
pulpit  eloquence  was  heard;  but  no;  it  was  John  Marshall, 
the  Chief-Justice  of  the  United  States. 


CXVII.— NEW-YEAR’S  NIGHT  OF  AN  UNHAPPY  MAN. 

From  the  German  of  Richter. 

1.  On  new-year’s  night,  an  old  man  stood  at  his  window, 
and  looked,  with  a glance  of  fearful  despair,  up  to  the  im- 
movable, unfading  heaven,  and  down  upon  the  still,  pure, 
white  earth,  on  which  no  one  was  now  so  joyless  and  sleep- 
less as  he.  His  grave  stood  near  him;  it  was  covered  only 
with  the  snows  of  age,  not  with  the  verdure  of  youth;  and^he 
brought  with  him  out  of  a whole,  rich  life,  nothing  but  errors, 
sins,  and  diseases ; a wasted  body ; a desolate  soul ; a heart, 
full  of  poison ; and  an  old  age,  full  of  repentance. 

2.  The  happy  days  of  his  early  youth  passed  before  him, 
like  a '’'procession  of  '’'specters,  and  brought  back  to  him 
that  lovely  morning,  when  his  father  first  placed  him  on  the 
cross-way  of  life,  where  the  right  hand  led  by  the  sunny 
paths  of  virtue,  into  a large  and  quiet  land,  full  of  light  and 
harvests;  and  the  left  plunged  by  the  '’'subterranean  walks  of 
vice,  into  a black  cave,  full  of  ’’'distilling  poison,  of  hissing 
snakes,  and  of  dark,  sultry  vapors.  , 

3.  Alas,  the  snakes  were  hanging  upon  his  breast,  and 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


299 


ihe  drops  of  poison  on  his  tongue;  and  he  now,  at  length, 
felt  all  the  horror  of  his  situation.  '♦'Distracted  with  un- 
speakable grief,  and  with  face  up-turned  to  heaven,  he  cried, 
“ My  father  ! give  me  back  my  youth  ! 0,  place  me  once 

again  upon  life’s  cross-way,  that  I may  choose  aright.”  But 
his  father  and  his  youth  were  long  since  gone.  He  saw 
'♦'phantom-lights  dancing  upon  the  marshes  and  disappear- 
ing at  the  church-yard  ; and  he  said,  “ These  are  my  foolish 
days!  ” He  saw  a star  shoot  from  heaven,  and  '♦'glittering  in 
its  fall,  vanish  upon  the  earth.  “ Behold  an  '♦'emblem  of  my 
career,”  said  his  bleeding  heart,  and  the  serpent  tooth  of 
repentance  digged  deeper  into  his  wounds. 

4.  His  excited  '♦'imagination  showed  him  specters  flying 
upon  the  roof,  and  a skull,  which  had  been  left  in  the  '♦'char- 
nel-house, gradually  assumed  his  own  features.  In  the  midst 
of  this  confusion  of  objects,  the  music  of  the  new-year  flowed 
down  from  the  steeple,  like  distant  '♦'church-melodies.  His 
heart  began  to  melt.  He  looked  around  the  horizon,  and 
over  the  wide  earth,  and  thought  of  the  friends  of  his  youth, 
who  now,  better  and  happier  than  he,  were  the  wise  of  the 
earth,  prosperous  men,  and  the  fathers  of  happy  children; 
and  he  said,  “Like  you,  I also  might  slumber,  with  tearless 
eyes,  through  the  long  nights,  had  I chosen  aright  in  the 
outset  of  my  career.  Ah,  my  father  1 had  I hearkened  to 
thy  instructions,  I too  might  have  been  happy.” 

5.  In  this  feverish  remembrance  of  his  youthful  days,  a 
skull  bearing  his  features,  seemed  slowly  to  rise  from  the 
door  of  the  '♦'charnel-house.  At  length,  by  that  '♦'superstition, 
which,  in  the  new-year’s  night,  sees  the  shadow  of  the  future, 
it  became  a living  youth.  He  could  look  no  longer;  he 
covered  his  eyes;  a thousand  burning  tears  streamed  down, 
and , fell  upon  the  snow.  In  accents  scarcely  audible,  he 
sighed  '♦'disconsolately:  “0,  days  of  my  youth,  return,  re- 
turn ! ” And  they  did  return.  It  had  only  been  a horrible 
dream.  But,  although  he  was  still  a youth,  his  errors  had 
been  a reality.  And  he  thanked  God,  that  he,  still  young, 
was  able  to  pause  in  the  degrading  course  of  vice,  and  return 
to  the  sunny  path  which  leads  to  the  land  of  harvests. 

6.  Return  with  him,  young  reader,  if  thou  art  walking  in 
the  same  downward  path,  lest  his  dream  become  thy  reality. 


300 


NEW  SIXTH  HEADER. 


For  if  thou  turnest  not  now,  in  the  spring-time  of  thy  days, 
vainly,  in  after  years,  when  the  shadows  of  age  are  darken- 
ing around  thee,  shalt  thou  call,  “Return,  0 beautiful  days 
of  youth ! ” Those  beautiful  days,  gone,  gone  forever,  and 
hidden  in  the  shadows  of  the  misty  past,  shall  close  their 
ears  against  thy  miserable  cries,  or  answer  thee  in  hollow 
accents,  we  return  no  more^ 


CXVIII.— THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 

From  Prentice. 

1.  'T  IS  midnight’s  holy  hour,  and  silence  now 
Is  brooding,  like  a gentle  spirit,  o’er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.  Hark!  on  the  winds, 
The  bell’s  deep  tones  are  swelling;  ’tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  year.  No  funeral  train 
Is  sweeping  past;  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 

With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest 
Like  a pale,  spotless  shroud;  the  air  is  stirred. 

As  by  a mourner’s  sigh;  and,  on  yon  cloud. 

That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven. 

The  spirits  of  the  Seasons  seem  to  stand. 

Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn’s  solemn  form, 
And  Winter,  with  his  aged  locks, — and  breathe 
In  mournful  '•'cadences,  that  come  abroad 
Like  the  far  wind-harp’s  wild  and  touching  '•'wail, 

A melancholy  '•'dirge  o’er  the  dead  year, 

Gone  from  the  earth  forever. 


2.  ’T  is  a time 

For  memory  and  for  tears.  Within  the  deep, 

Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a '•'specter  dim, 

Whose  tones  are  like  the  '•'wizard  voice  of  Time, 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 
And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions,  that  have  passed  away, 

And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.  The  '•'specter  lifts 
The  coffin-lid  of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Love, 

And  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale, 

Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers, 
O’er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


301 


3.  The  year 

Has  gone,  and  with  it,  many  a glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.  Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 

Its  shadow,  in  each  heart.  In  its  swift  course 
It  waved  its  scepter  o’er  the  beautiful, 

And  they  are  not.  It  laid  its  "^pallid  hand 
Upon  the  strong  man;  and  the  haughty  form 
Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 

It  trod  the  hall  of  '•'revelry,  where  thronged 
The  bright  and  joyous;  and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  stricken  ones  is  heard,  where  erst  the  song 
And  "treckless  shout  "^resounded.  It  passed  o’er 
The  battle-plain,  where  sword,  and  spear,  and  shield, 
Flashed  in  the  light  of  midday ; and  the  strength 
Of  ■•'serried  hosts  is  shivered,  and  the  grass. 

Green  from  the  soil  of '•'carnage,  waves  above 
The  crushed  and  '•'moldering  '•'skeleton.  It  came, 
And  faded  like  a wreath  of  mist  at  eve ; 

Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  '•'viewless  air, 

It  '•'heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

4.  ■’'Remorseless  Time!  • 
Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe ! What  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 

His  iron  heart  to  pity!  On,  still  on. 

He  presses,  and  forever.  The  proud  bird, 

The  '•'condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven’s  '•'unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane. 

And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder’ s*home. 

Furls  his  broad  wing  at  night-fall,  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag ; but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness ; 

And  Night’s  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 
His  rushing  pinion. 

5.  '•■Revolutions  sweep 

O’er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o’er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow;  cities  rise  and  sink 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water;  fiery  isles 
Spring  blazing  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  '•'mysterious  caverns ; mountains  rear 
To  heaven  their  bold  and  blackened  clifiTs,  and  bow 
Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain;  and  empires  rise, 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries  > 


802 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


And  rush  down,  like  the  Alpine  ^avalanche, 
Startling  the  nations;  and  the  very  stars, 

Yon  bright  and  glorious  '‘'blazonry  of  God, 

Glitter  awhile  in  their  eternal  depths. 

And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train. 
Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void ; yet  Time, 

Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all  pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 

To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors. 

Upon  that  fearful  ruin  he  hath  wrought 


CXIX.— THE  PASSIONS. 

From  Collins. 

1.  When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet,  in  early  Greece,  she  sung. 

The  '•'Passions,  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
'•^Thronged  around  her  magic  cell; 
'•'Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting: 

By  turns  they  felt  the  '•'glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  '•'refined; 

Till  once,  ’t  is  said,  when  all  were  fired. 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 

From  the  supporting  '•'myrtles  round, 

Thejr  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart, 

Hweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 

Each  (for  madness  ruled  the  hour) 

Would  prove  his  own  '•'expressive  power. 

2 First  Fear,  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try. 

Amid  the  chords  '•'bewildered  laid ; 

4nd  ba^k  re3oiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

E’en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

3.  Next  Anger  rushed,  his  eyes  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 


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4.  With  '•'wo fill  measures,  wan  Despair 

Low,  sullen  sounds,  his  grief  ^beguiled; 

A solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 

’T  was  sad  by  fits;  by  starts  ’t  was  wild. 

But  thou,  O Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair. 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure? 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure. 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail! 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  '^'prolong ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 

She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  her  song; 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A soft,  "^responsive  voice  Avas  heard  at  every  close: 

And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair. 

6.  And  longer  had  she  sung,  but,  with  a frown. 

Revenge  impatient  rose; 

He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down; 

And,  with  a withering  look. 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took. 

And  blew  a blast  so  loud  and  dread. 

Were  ne’er  "‘'prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe, 

And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat; 

And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  beUveen, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side. 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 

Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild,  unaltered  mien; 

While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting  from  his  head 

7.  Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  naught  were  fixed. 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ; 

Of  differing  "•'themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed  ; 

And  now  it  courted  Love;  noAv,  raving,  called  on  Hate. 

8 With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired. 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired; 

And  from  her  wild  '•'sequestered  seat. 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet. 

Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul; 

And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around. 

Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound : 

Through  '•'glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measures  stole; 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Or,  o’er  some  '^'hauijted  stream,  with  fond  delay. 

Round  a holy  calm  '•'diffusing, 

Love  of  peace  and  lonely  musing, 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

9.  But,  oh!  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 

When  Cheerfulness,  a nymph  of  healthiest  hue. 

Her  how  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Her  '•'buskins  '•'gemmed  with  morning  dew. 

Blew  an  '•'inspiring  air,  that  '•'dale  and  thicket  rung, 
The  hunter’s  call  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known. 

The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed  queen. 
Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear. 

And  Sport  leaped  up  and  seized  his  beechen  spear 

10.  Last,  came  Joy’s  tecstatic  trial  : 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing. 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed ; 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol. 

Whose  sweet  '•'entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 

They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain. 
They  saw,  in  Tempe’s  vale,  her  native  maids, 

Amid  the  '•‘festal-sounding  shades. 

To  some  unwearied  '•'minstrel  dancing. 

While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a gay  '•'fantastic  round; 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound; 

And  he,  amid  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay. 

Shook  thousand '•'odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 


CXX.— DISCONTENT.— AN  ALLEGORY. 

From  Addison. 

1.  It  is  a celebrated  thought  of  Socrates,  that  if  all  the 
misfortunes  of  mankind  were  cast  into  a public  stock,  in 
order  to  be  equally  distributed  among  the  whole  species, 
those  who  now  think  themselves  the  most  unhappy,  would 
prefer  the  share  they  are  already  possessed  of,  before  that 
which  would  fall  to  them  by  such  a division.  Horace  has 
carried  this  thought  a good  deal  further,  and  supposes  that 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


305 


the  hardships  or  misfortunes  we  lie  under,  are  more  easy  to 
us,  than  those  of  any  other  person  would  be,  in  case  we  could 
change  '‘'conditions  with  him. 

2.  As  I was  ruminating  on  these  two  remarks,  and  seated 
in  my  elbow-chair,  I insensibly  fell  asleep ; when,  on  a sud- 
den, me  thought  there  was  a proclamation  made  by  Jupiter, 
that  every  mortal  should  bring  in  his  griefs  and  '‘'calamities, 
and  throw  them  together  in  a heap.  There  was  a large  plain 
appointed  for  the  purpose.  I took  my  stand  in  the  center  of 
it,  and  saw,  with  a great  deal  of  pleasure,  the  whole  human 
species  marching  one  after  another,  and  throwing  down  their 
several  loads,  which  immediately  grew  up  into  a prodigious 
mountain,  that  seemed  to  rise  above  the  clouds. 

3.  There  was  a certain  lady  of  a thin,  airy  shape,  who  was 
very  active  in  this  solemnity.  She  carried  a magnifying  glass 
in  one  of  her  hands,  and  was  clothed  in  a loose,  flowing  robe, 
embroidered  with  several  figures  of  fiends  and  specters,  that 
discovered  themselves  in  a thousand  '‘'chimerical  shapes,  as 
her  garments  hovered  in  the  wind.  There  was  something 
wild  and  distracted  in  her  looks.  Her  name  was  Fancy. 
She  led  up  every  mortal  to  the  appointed  place,  after  hav- 
ing very  '‘'officiously  assisted  him  in  making  up  his  pack,  and 
laying  it  upon  his  shoulders.  My  heart  melted  within  me 
to  see  my  fellow-creatures  groaning  under  their  '‘'respective 
burdens,  and  to  consider  that  '‘'prodigious  bulk  of  human  ca- 
lamities which  lay  before  me. 

4.  There  were,  however,  several  persons  who  gave  me 
great  diversion  upon  this  occasion.  I observed  one  bring- 
ing in  a pack,  very  carefully  concealed  under  an  old  '‘'em- 
broidered cloak,  which,  upon  his  throwing  it  into  the  heap, 
T discovered  to  be  poverty.  Another,  after  a great  deal  of 
puffing,  threw  down  his  baggage,  which,  upon  examining, 
I found  to  be  his  wife.  There  were  multitudes  of  lovers 
saddled  with  very '‘'whimsical  burdens,  composed  of  darts  and 
flames ; but,  what  was  very  odd,  though  they  sighed  as  if  their 
hearts  would  break  under  these  bundles  of  calamities,  they 
could  not  persuade  themselves  to  cast  them  into  the  heap, 
when  they  came  up  to  it;  but,  after  a few  faint  efforts,  shook 
their  heads  and  marched  away,  as  heavy  laden  as  they  came. 

5.  I saw  multitudes  of  old  women  throw  down  their 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


wrinkles^  and  several  young  ones  who  stripped  themselves  of 
a tawny  skin.  There  were  very  great  heaps  of  red  noses, 
large  lips,  and  rusty  teeth.  The  truth  of  it  is,  I was  surprised 
to  see  the  greatest  part  of  the  mountain  made  up  of  hodily 
^deformities.  Observing  one  advancing  toward  the  heap  with 
a larger  cargo  than  ordinary  upon  his  back,  I found,  upon 
his  near  approach,  that  it  was  only  a natural  hump^  which 
he  disposed  of,  with  great  joy  of  heart,  among  this  collection 
of  human  miseries. 

6.  There  were,  likewise,  "^distempers  of  all  sorts,  though  I 
could  not  but  observe,  that  there  were  many  more  imaginary 
than  real.  One  little  packet  I could  not  but  take  notice  of, 
which  was  a complication  of  all  the  diseases  incident  to 
human  nature,  and  was  in  the  hand  of  a great  many  fine 
people.  This  was  called  the  spleen.  But  what  most  of  all 
surprised  me  was,  that  there  was  not  a single  vice  or  folly 
thrown  into  the  whole  heap : at  which  I was  very  much 
astonished,  having  concluded  within  myself,  that  every  one 
would  take  this  opportunity  of  getting  rid  of  his  passions^ 
prejudices.,  and  frailties. 

7.  I took  notice  in  particular  of  a very  '’'profiigate  fellow, 
who,  I did  not  question,  came  loaded  with  his  crimes,  but  upon 
searching  his  bundle,  I found,  that  instead  of  throwing  his 
guilt  from  him,  he  had  only  laid  down  his  memory.  He  was 
followed  by  another  worthless  rogue,  who  flung  away  his 
modesty  instead  of  his  ignorance. 

8.  When  the  whole  race  of  mankind  had  thus  cast  away 
their  burdens,  the  phantom  which  had  been  so  busy  on  this 
occasion,  seeing  me  an  idle  spectator  of  what  had  passed,  ap- 
proached toward  me.  I grew  uneasy  at  her  presence,  when, 
of  a sudden,  she  held  her  magnifying  glass  full  before  my 
eyes.  I no  sooner  saw  my  face  in  it,  than  I was  startled  at 
the  shortness  of  it,  which  now  appeared  in  its  utmost  +aggrava- 
tion.  The  '^'immoderate  breadth  of  the  features  made  me  very 
much  out  of  humor  with  my  own  countenance,  upon  which, 
I threw  it  from  me  like  a mask.  It  happened  very  luckily, 
that  one  who  stood  by  me  had  just  before  thrown  down  his 
visage,  which,  it  seems,  was  too  long  for  him.  It  was,  indeed, 
extended  to  a most  shamefid  length;  I believe  the  very  chin 
was,  modestly  speaking,  as  long  as  my  whole  face.  We  had 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


307 


both  of  us  an  opportunity  of  mending  ourselves;  and  all  the 
contributions  being  now  brought  in,  every  man  was  at  liberty 
to  exchange  his  misfortunes  for  those  of  another  person. 

9.  As  we  stood  round  the  heap,  and  '^'surveyed  the  several 
materials  of  which  it  was  composed,  there  was  scarcely  a mortal 
in  this  vast  multitude  who  did  not  discover  what  he  thought 
'pleasures  and  hlessings  of  life ; and  wondered  how  the  owners 
of  them  ever  came  to  look  upon  them  as  hurdens  and  griev- 
ances. As  we  were  regarding  very  attentively  this  confusion 
of  miseries,  this  chaos  of  calamities,  Jupiter  issued  a second 
proclamation,  that  every  one  was  now  at  liberty  to  exchange 
his  affliction,  and  to  return  to  his  habitation  with  any  such 
other  bundle  as  he  should  select.  Upon  this.  Fancy  began  to 
bestir  herself,  and  parceling  out  the  whole  heap  with  incredible 
'‘'activity,  recommended  to  every  one  his  particular  packet. 
The  hurry  and  confusion  at  this  time  was  not  to  be  expressed. 
Some  observations,  which  I made  at  the  time,  I shall  commu- 
nicate to  the  public. 

10.  A venerable  gray-headed  man,  who  had  laid  down  the 
colic,  and  who,  I found,  wanted  an  heir  to  his  estate,  snatched 
up  an  undutiful  son,  that  had  been  thrown  into  the  heap  by  an 
angry  father.  The  graceless  youth,  in  less  than  a quarter  of 
an  hour,  pulled  the  old  gentleman  by  the  beard,  and  had  liked 
to  have  knocked  his  brains  out;  so  that,  the  true  father  coming 
toward  him  with  a fit  of  the  gripes,  he  begged  him  to  take  his 
son  again,  and  give  him  back  his  colic;  but  they  were  '‘'inca- 
pable, either  of  them,  to  recede  from  the  choice  they  had  made. 
A poor  galley-slave,  who  had  thrown  down  his  chains.,  took  up 
the  gout  in  their  stead,  but  made  such  wry"  faces,  that  one 
might  easily  perceive  he  was  no  great  gainer  by  the  bargain. 

11.  The  female  world*  were  very  busy  among  themselves  in 
^bartering  for  features;  one  was  '‘'trucking  a lock  of  gray  hairs 
for  a '‘'carbuncle ; and  another  was  making  over  a short  waist 
for  a pair  of  round  shoulders;  but  on  all  these  occasions  there 
was  not  one  of  them  who  did  not  think  the  new  blemish,  as 
soon  as  she  had  got  it  into  her  possession,  much  more  dis- 
agreeable than  the  old  one. 

12.  I must  not  omit  my  own  particular  adventure.  My 
friend  with  the  long  visage  had  no  sooner  taken  upon  him  my 
short  face,  but  he  made  such  a grotesque  figure  in  it,  that  as 


308 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


I looked  upon  him,  I could  not  forbear  laughing  at  myself, 
insomuch  that  I put  my  own  face  out  of  countenance.  The 
poor  gentleman  was  so  sensible  of  the  ridicule,  that  I found 
he  was  ashamed  of  what  he  had  done.  On  the  other  side,  1 
myself  had  no  great  reason  to  triumph,  for  as  I went  to  touch 
my  forehead,  I missed  the  place,  and  clapped  my  finger  upon 
my  upper  lip.  Beside,  as  my  nose  was  exceedingly  "^prom- 
inent, I gave  it  two  or  three  unlucky  knocks  as  I was  playing 
my  hand  about  my  face,  and  aiming  at  some  other  part  of  it. 

13.  I saw  two  other  gentlemen  by  me,  who  were  in  the  same 
ridiculous  circumstances.  These  had  made  a foolish  swap  be- 
tween a couple  of  thick  bandy  legs,  and  two  long  trap-sticks 
that  had  no  calves  to  them.  One  of  these  looked  like  a man 
walking  upon  stilts,  and  was  so  lifted  up  in  the  air,  above  his 
ordinary  height,  that  his  head  turned  round  with  it,  while  the 
other  made  such  awkward  circles,  as  he  attempted  to  walk,  that 
he  scarcely  knew  how  to  move  forward  upon  his  new  support- 
ers. Observing  him  to  be  a pleasant  kind  of  a fellow,  I stuck 
my  cane  in  the  ground,  and  told  him  I would  lay  a bottle  of 
wine,  that  he  did  not  march  up  to  it  on  a straight  line,  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour. 

14.  The  heap  was  at  last  distributed  among  the  two  sexes, 
who  made  a most  piteous  sight,  as  they  wandered  up  and  down 
under  the  pressure  of  their  several  burdens.  The  whole  plain 
was  filled  with  '^'murmurs  and  complaints,  groans  and  '’'lamen- 
tations. Jupiter  at  length  taking  compassion  on  the  poor 
mortals,  ordered  them  a second  time  to  lay  down  their  loads, 
with  a design  to  give  every  one  his  own  again.  They  dis- 
charged themselves  with  a great  deal  of  pleasure;  after  which, 
the  phantom,  who  had  led  them  into  such  gross  delusions,  was 
commanded  to  disappear.  There  was* sent  in  her  stead,  a god- 
dess of  quite  a different  figure : her  motions  were  steady  and 
composed,  and  her  '’'aspect  serious,  but  cheerful.  She,  every 
now  and  then,  cast  her  eyes  toward  heaven,  and  fixed  them 
on  Jupiter.  Her  name  was  Patience.  She  had  no  sooner 
placed  herself  by  the  Mount  of  Sorrows,  than,  what  I 
thought  very  remarkable,  the  whole  heap  sunk  to  such  a 
degree  that  it  did  not  appear  a third  so  big  as  before.  She 
afterward  returned  every  man  his  own  proper  calamity,  and, 
teaching  him  how  to  bear  it  in  the  most  "’'commodious  manner, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


309 


he  marched  off  with  it  contentedly,  being  very  well  pleased 
that  he  had  not  been  left  to  his  own  choice,  as  to  the  kind 
of  evil  which  fell  to  his  lot. 

15.  Beside  the  several  pieces  of  morality  to  be  drawn  from 
this  vision,  I learnt  from  it,  never  to  repine  at  my  own  misfort- 
unes, or  to  envy  the  happiness  of  another;  since  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  any  man  to  form  a right  judgment  of  his  neighbor’s 
sufferings;  for  which  reason  also,  I am  determined  never  to 
think  too  lightly  of  another’s  complaints,  but  to  regard  the 
sorrows  of  my  fellow-creatures  with  sentiments  of  humanity 
and  compassion. 


CXXI.— RESOLUTION  OF  RUTH. 

^^And  Ruth  said,  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  ^hee,  or  to  return  from  follow- 
ing after  thee  : for  whither  thou  goest,  I will  go  : and  where  thou  lodgest, 
I will  lodge : thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God  : where 
thou  diest,  will  I die,  and  there  will  I be  buried  : the  Lord  do  so  to  me  and 
more  also,  if  aught  but  death  part  thee  and  me. 

1.  Farewell?  0 no ! it  may  not  be; 

My  firm  resolve  is  heard  on  high  : 

I will  not  breathe  farewell  to  thee, 

Save  only  in  my  dying  sigh. 

I know  not,  that  I now  could  bear 
Forever  from  thy  side  to  part, 

And  live  without  a friend  to  share 
The  treasured  sadness  of  my  heart. 

2.  T did  not  love,  in  former  years, 

To  leave  thee  "^solitary;  now, 

When  sorrow  dims  thine  eyes  with  tears. 

And  shades  the  beauty  of  thy  brow, 

I’ll  share  the  trial  and  the  pain; 

And  strong  the  furnace  fires  must  be, 

To  melt  away  the  willing  chain 

That  binds  a daughter’s  heart  to  thee 

3.  I will  not  boast  a '^'martyr’s  might. 

To  leave  my  home  without  a sigh; 

The  dwelling  of  my  past  delight. 

The  shelter  wdiere  1 hoped  to  die. 
in  such  a duty,  such  an  hour. 

The  weak  are  strong,  the  timid,  brave, 

For  love  puts  on  an  angel’s  power. 

And  faith  grows  mightier  than  the  graie. 

26 


3J0  NEW  SIXTH  READER, 

4.  It  was  not  so,  ere  he  we  loved, 

And  vainly  strove  with  heaven  to  save, 
Heard  the  low  call  of  death,  and  moved 
With  holy  calmness  to  the  grave, 

Just  at  that  brightest  hour  of  youth, 

When  life  spread  out  before  us  lay. 

And  charmed  us  with  its  tones  of  truth, 
And  colors,  '^'radiant  as  the  day. 

5.  When  morning’s  tears  of  joy  were  shed. 

Or  nature’s  evening  '•'incense  rose, 

We  thought  upon  the  grave  with  dread, 
And  '•'shuddered  at  its  dark  repose. 

But  all  is  altered  now:  of  death 

The  morning  '•'echoes  sweetly  speak, 

And  like  my  loved  one’s  dying  breath. 

The  evening  '•'breezes  fan  my  cheek. 

6.  For  rays  of  heaven,  '•'serenely  bright, 

Have  gilt  the  caverns  of  the  tomb; 

And  I can  '•'ponder  with  delight, 

On  all  its  gathering  thoughts  of  gloom. 
Then,  mother,  let  us  haste  away 
To  that  blessed  land  to  Israel  given, 
Where  faith,  '•'unsaddened  by  decay, 

Dwells  nearest  to  its  native  heaven. 

7.  We  ’ll  stand  within  the  temple’s  bound, 

In  courts  by  kings  and  '•'prophets  trod; 
We  ’ll  bless,  with  tears,  the  sacred  ground, 
And  there  be  earnest  with  our  God, 
Where  peace  and  praise  forever  reign, 

And  glorious  '•'anthems  duly  flow, 

Till  '•'seraphs  learn  to  catch  the  strain 
Of  heaven’s  devotions,  here  below. 

But  where  thou  goest,  I will  go; 

With  thine  my  earthly  lot  is  cast; 

In  pain  and  pleasure,  joy  and  woe, 

Will  I attend  thee  to  the  last. 

That  hour  shall  find  me  by  thy  side; 

And  where  thy  grave  is,  mine  shall  be 
D(‘ath  can  but  for  a time  divide 

My  firm  and  faithful  heart  from  thee. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


311 


CXXII.— FAMILY  OF  MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

From  Stevens. 

Stevens  was  a celebrated  American  traveler,  who  visited  the  family 
of  Marco  Bozzaris,  which  he  describes  in  this  extract. 

Marco  Bozzaris  was  a leader  of  the  Greeks  in  their  revolution. 
He  was  killed  in  battle  at  Missolonghi,  a Greek  town,  in  1823.  His 
last  words  were,  “ To  die  for  liberty  is  a pleasure,  not  a pain.” 

Mustapha  Pacha  was  leader  of  the  Turkish  troops. 

1.  Moving  on  beyond  the  range  of  ruined  houses,  though 
still  within  the  line  of  crumbling  walls,  we  came  to  a spot, 
perhaps  as  interesting  as  any  that  Grreece,  in  her  best  days, 
could  show.  It  was  the  tomb  of  Marco  Bozzaris ! No  '‘'mon- 
umental marble  '‘'emblazoned  his  deeds  and  fame ; a few  round 
stones,  piled  over  his  head,  which,  but  for  our  guide,  we 
should  have  passed  without  noticing,  were  all  that  marked 
his  grave. 

2.  I would  not  disturb  a proper  '‘'reverence  for  the  past. 
Time  covers,  with  its  dim  and  twilight  glories,  both  distant 
scenes  and  the  men  who  acted  in  them ; but  to  my  mind, 
Miltiades  was  not  more  of  a hero  at  Marathon,  or  Leonidas  at 
Thermopylae,  than  Marco  Bozzaris  at  Missolonghi.  When 
they  went  out  against  the  hosts  of  Persia,  Athens  and  Sparta 
were  great  and  free,  and  they  had  the  prospect  of  glory  and 
the  praise  of  men, — to  the  Greeks  always  dearer  than  life. 
But  when  the  Suliote  chief  drew  his  sword,  his  country  lay 
bleeding  at  the  feet  of  a giant,  and  all  Europe  condemned  the 
Greek  revolution  as  fool-hardy  and  desperate. 

3.  For  two  months,  with  but  a few  hundred  men,  protected 
only  by  a ditch,  and  a slight  '‘'parapet  of  earth,  he  defended 
the  town,  where  his  body  now  rests,  against  the  whole  Egyp- 
tian army.  In  stormy  weather,  living  upon  bad  and  unwhole- 
some bread,  with  no  covering  but  his  cloak,  he  passed  his 
days  and  nights  in  constant  '‘'vigil ; in  every  assault  his 
sword  cut  down  the  foremost  assailant;  and  his  voice,  rising 
above  the  din  of  battle,  struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  the 
enemy.  In  the  struggle  which  ended  with  his  life,  with  two 
thousand  men,  he  proposed  to  attack  the  whole  army  of  Mus- 
tapha Pacha,  and  called  upon  all  who  were  willing  to  die  for 
their  country,  to  stand  forward. 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


4.  The  whole  band  advanced,  to  a man.  Unwilling  to 
sacrifice  so  many  brave  men  in  a death-struggle,  he  chose 
three  hundred,  the  sacred  number  of  the  Spartan  band,  his 
true  and  trusty  Suliotes.  At  midnight,  he  placed  himself  at 
their  head,  directing  that  not  a shot  should  be  fired,  till  he 
sounded  his  bugle ; and  his  last  command  was,  “ If  you  lose 
sight  of  me,  seek  me  in  the  '^pacha’s  tent.”  In  the  moment 
of  victory,  and  while  ordering  the  pacha  to  be  seized,  he 
received  a ball  in  the  loins ; his  voice  still  rose  above  the  din 
of  battle,  cheering  his  men,  until  he  was  struck  by  another 
ball  in  the  head,  and  borne  dead  from  the  field  of  his  glory. 

5.  But  the  most  interesting  part  of  our  day  at  Missolon- 
ghi  was  to  come.  Beturning  from  a ramble  round  the  walls, 
we  noticed  a large,  square  house,  which  our  guide  told  us 
was  the  residence  of  Constantine,  the  brother  of  Marco  Boz- 
zaris.  We  were  all  interested  in  this  intelligence;  and  our 
interest  was  in  no  small  degree  increased,  when  he  added, 
that  the  widow  and  two  of  the  children  of  the  Suliote  chief 
were  living  with  his  brother.  The  house  was  surrounded  by 
a high  stone-wall,  a large  gate  stood  invitingly  open,  and  we 
turned  toward  it  in  the  hope  of  catching  a glimpse  of  the 
inhabitants;  but  before  we  reached  the  gate  our  interest  had 
increased  to  such  a point,  that,  after  consulting  with  our 
guide,  we  requested  him  to  say,  that  if  it  would  not  be  con- 
sidered an  '^'intrusion,  three  travelers,  two  of  them  Americans, 
would  feel  honored  in  being  permitted  to  pay  their  respects 
to  the  widow  and  children  of  Marco  Bozzaris. 

6.  We  were  invited  in,  and  shown  into  a large  room  on 
the  right,  where  three  Greeks  were  sitting  cross-legged  on 
a '•'divan,  smoking  the  long  Turkish  pipe.  Soon  after,  the 
brother  entered,  a man  about  fifty,  of  middling  height,  spare 
built,  and  wearing  a Bavarian  uniform,  as  holding  a Colonel’s 
■•'commission  in  the  service  of  king  Otho.  In  the  dress  of  the 
dashing  Suliote,  he  would  have  better  looked  the  brother  of 
Marco  Bozzaris,  and  I might  then  more  easily  have  recog- 
nized the  daring  warrior,  who,  on  the  field  of  battle,  in  a 
moment  of  extremity,  was  deemed,  by  universal  '•'acclamation, 
worthy  of  succeeding  the  fallen  hero.  Now,  the  straight, 
military  frock-coat,  buttoned  tight  across  the  breast,  the  stock, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


313 


tight  pantaloons,  boots,  and  straps,  seemed  to  repress  the  free 
■•'energies  of  the  mountain  warrior ; and  I could  not  but  think 
how  awkward  it  must  be,  for  one  who  had  spent  his  whole 
life  in  a dress  which  hardly  touched  him,  at  fifty,  to  put  on 
a stock,  and  straps  to  his  boots.  Our  guide  introduced  us, 
with  an  '•'apology  for  our  intrusion.  The  colonel  received 
us  with  great  kindness,  thanked  us  for  the  honor  done  his 
brother’s  widow,  and  requested  us  to  be  seated,  ordering 
coffee  and  pipes. 

7.  And  here,  on  the  very  first  day  of  our  arrival  in  Greece, 
and  from  a source  which  made  us  proud,  we  had  the  first  evi- 
dence of  what  afterward  met  me  at  every  step,  the  warm  feeling 
existing  in  Greece  toward  America;  for  almost  the  first  thing 
that  the  brother  of  Marco  Bozzaris  said,  was  to  express  his 
gratitude  as  a Greek,  for  the-  services  rendered  his  country  by 
our  own;  and  after  referring  to  the  provisions  sent  out  for 
his  famishing  countrymen,  his  eye  sparkled  and  his  cheek 
flushed,  as  he  told  us,  that  when  the  Greek  '•'revolutionary 
flag  first  sailed  into  the  port  of  Napoli  di  Romania,  among 
hundreds  of  vessels  of  all  nations,  an  American  captain  was 
the  first  to  recognize  and  salute  it. 

8.  In  a few  moments,  the  widow  of  Marco  Bozzaris 
entered.  I have  often  been  disappointed  in  my '•'preconceived 
notions  of  personal  appearance,  but  it  was  not  so  with  the 
lady  who  now  stood  before  me.  She  looked  the  widow  of  a 
hero ; as  one  worthy  of  those  Grecian  mothers,  who  gave 
their  hair  for  bow-strings,  and  their  girdles  for  sword-belts, 
and  while  their  heart-strings  were  cracking,  sent  their  young 
lovers  from  their  arms,  to  fight  and  perish  for  their  country. 
Perhaps  it  was  she  that  led  Marco  Bozzaria  into  the  path  of 
■•'immortality,  that  roused  him  from  the  wild 'fguerrilla  war- 
fare in  which  he  had  passed  his  early  life,  and  fired  him  with 
the  high  and  holy  ambition  of  freeing  his  country.  Of  one 
thing  I am  certain : no  man  could  look  her  in  the  face,  with- 
out finding  his  wavering  purposes  fixed,  without  treading 
more  firmly  in  the  path  of  high  and  honorable  enterprise. 
She  was  under  forty,  tall  and  stately  in  person,  and  habited 
in  deep  black,  fit  emblem  of  her  widowed  condition.  We  all 
rose  as  she  entered  the  room;  and,  though  living  ^secluded, 
and  seldom  seeing  the  face  of  a stranger,  she  received  our 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


compliments  and  returned  them  with  far  less  '’'embarrassment, 
than  we  both  felt  and  exhibited. 

9.  But  our  embarrassment — at  least,  I speak  for  myself — 
was  induced  by  an  unexpected  circumstance.  Much  as  1 was 
interested  in  her  appearance,  I was  not  insensible  to  the  fact, 
that  she  was  accompanied  by  two  young  and  beautiful  girls, 
who  were  introduced  to  us  as  her  daughters.  This  some- 
what ■’'bewildered  me ; for,  while  waiting  for  their  appearance, 
and  talking  v/ith  Constantine  Bozzaris,  I had,  in  some  way, 
conceived  the  idea  that  the  daughters  were  mere  children, 
and  had  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  take  them  both  on  my 
knee  and  kiss  them ; but  the  appearance  of  the  stately 
mother  recalled  me  to  the  grave  of  Bozzaris ; and  the  daugh- 
ters would  probably  have  thought  that  I was  taking  liberties, 
upon  so  short  an  acquaintance,  if  I had  followed  up  my  be- 
nevolent purpose  in  regard  to  them ; so,  with  the  long  pipe  in 
my  hand,  which  at  that  time,  I did  not  know  how  to  manage 
well,  I can  not  flatter  myself  that  I exhibited  any  of  the 
advantages  of  '’'continental  travel. 

10.  The  elder  was  about  sixteen,  and  even  in  the  opinion 
of  my  friend,  Dr.  W.,  a cool  judge  in  these  matters,  a beauti- 
ful girl,  possessing  all  the  elements  of  Grecian  beauty;  a 
dark,  clear  complexion ; dark  hair,  set  ofi*  by  a little  red  cap, 
embroidered  with  gold  thread,  and  a long  blue  tassel  hanging 
down  behind ; and  large  black  eyes  expressing  a melancholy 
quiet,  but  which  might  be  excited  to  shoot  forth  glances  of 
fire  more  terrible  than  her  father’s  sword.  Happily  too,  for 
us,  she  talked  French,  having  learned  it  from  a French  mar- 
quis, who  had  served  in  Greece,  and  been  '•'domesticated  with 
them ; but  young,  and  modest,  and  unused  to  the  company  of 
strangers,  she  felt  the  '’'embarrassment  common  to  young- 
ladies,  when  attempting  to  speak  a foreign  language.  And 
we  could  not  talk  to  her  on  common  themes.  Our  lips  were 
sealed,  of  course,  upon  the  subject  which  had  brought  us  to 
her  house.  We  could  not  sound  for  her  the  praises  of  her 
gallant  father. 

11.  At  parting,  however,  I told  them  that  the  name  of 
Marco  Bozzaris  was  as  familiar  in  America,  as  that  of  a hero 
of  our  own  revolution ; and  that  it  had  been  hallowed  by  the 
'^‘inspiration  of  an  American  poet ; and  I aaaed,  that  if  it 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


315 


would  not  be  unacceptable,  on  my  return  to  my  native  coun  - 
try, I would  send  the  '•'tribute  referred  to,  as  an  evidence  of  the 
feeling  existing  in  America  toward  the  memory  of  Marco  Boz- 
zaris.  My  offer  was  gratefully  accepted  ; and  afterward,  while 
in  the  act  of  mounting  my  horse  to  leave  Missolonghi,  our  guide, 
who  had  remained  behind,  came  to  me  with  a message  from 
the  widow  and  her  daughters,  reminding  me  of  my  promise. 

12.  I make  no  apology  for  introducing  to  the  public,  the 
widow  and  daughters  of  Marco  Bozzaris.  True,  I was  re- 
ceived by  them  in  private,  without  any  expectation,  either  on 
their  part  or  mine,  that  all  the  particulars  of  the  '•'interview 
would  be  noted  and  laid  before  the  eyes  of  all  who  choose  to 
read.  I hope  it  will  not  be  considered  '•'invading  the  '*'sanc- 
tity  of  private  life ; but,  at  all  events,  I make  no  apology ; the 
widow  and  children  of  Marco  Bozzaris  are  the  property  of 
the  world. 


CXXIIL— MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

From  Halleck. 

1.  At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  lay  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  +suppliance  bent, 
Should  tremble  at  his  power. 

In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  '•'trophies  of  a '•'conqueror; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumph  heard; 
Then  wore  his  monarch’s  '•'signet-ring; 

Then  pressed  that  monarch’s  throne,  a king;. 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing. 

As  Eden’s  garden  bird. 

2.  At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 

True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 

There,  had  the  Persian’s  thousands  stood, 
There,  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood, 
In  old  Plataea’s  day: 

And  now,  there  breathed  that  haunted  air, 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 

With  arms  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they, 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


3.  An  hour  passed  on;  the  Turk  awoke; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last: 

He  woke,  to  Lear  his  "^sentries  shriek, 

“To  arms!  they  come!  the  Greek!  the  Greek!” 
He  woke,  to  die  mid  flame  and  smoke, 

And  shout,  and  groan,  and  saber-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings,  from  the  mountain-cloud; 

And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band; 

^‘Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires; 

Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires; 

Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires; 

God — and  your  native  land  ! ” 

4.  They  fought,  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  the  ground  with  Moslem  slain; 
They  conquered,  but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 

His  few  ■’'surviving  '’’comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  proud  hurra. 

And  the  red  field  was  won: 

Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close. 

Calmly,  as  to  a night’s  repose. 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

5.  Come  to  the  bridal  chamber.  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother,  when  she  feels. 

For  the  first  time,  her  first-born’s  breath; 

Come,  when  the  blessed  seals 
Which  close  the  '’'pestilence  are  broke. 

And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke; 

Come,  in  consumption’s  ghastly  form. 

The  earthquake’s  shock,  the  ocean  storm, 

Come,  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 
With  "tbanquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine. 
And  thou  art  terrible;  the  tear, 

The  groan,  the  '’'knell,  the  '’’pall,  the  bier, 

And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 
Of  ■’’agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 
Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free. 

Thy  voice  sounds  like  a prophet’s  word 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 
The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


317 


6.  Bozzaris!  with  the  '•'storied  brave, 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory’s  time, 
Rest  thee;  there  is  no  prouder  grave, 
Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

We  tell  thy  doom  without  a sigh, 

For  thou  art  Freedom’s  now,  and  Fames 
One  of  the  few,  the  "^immortal  names, 
That  were  not  born  to  die. 


CXXIV.— SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  BARD. 

From  Byrox. 

George  Gordon  Byron,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  English  poets, 
was  born  in  London,  in  1788.  His  poems  are  numerous,  and  display 
astonishing  skill  in  versification,  a wonderful  perception  of  the  sublime 
and  beautiful,  and  an  intellectual  power,  perhaps  never  surpassed.  Un- 
fortunately, however,  his  great  genius  was  exerted  too  much  against  all 
that  is  good,  if  not  in  favor  of  all  that  is  evil.  He  embarked  in  the  cause 
of  the  Greek  revolution,  and  died  at  Missolonghi,  in  1824. 

A modern  Greek  is  here  supposed  to  compare  the  present  ■’’degeneracy 
of  his  country  with  its  ancient  glory,  and  to  utter  his  lamentations  in 
the  words  of  the  song.  The  king  referred  to  in  the  4th  stanza  is  Xeroxes, 
king  of  Persia. 

1.  The  Isles  of  Greece!  the  Isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  '•'Sappho  loved  and  sung, 

Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace. 

Where  '•'Delos  rose,  and  '•'Phoebus  sprung! 
'•'Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet. 

But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

2.  The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero’s  harp,  the  lover’s  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
'I'o  sounds  that  echo  further  west. 

Than  your  sires’  “Islands  of  the  Blest.” 

3.  The  mountains  look  on  '•'Marathon, 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 

For,  standing  on  the  Persians’  grave, 

1 could  not  deem  myself  a slave. 

27 


318 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


4.  A king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o’er  sea-born  '‘'Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 

And  men  in  nations, — all  were  his ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day. 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  ? 

5.  And  where  are  they  ? And  where  art  thoUj 

My  country  ? On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  "^heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now, 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  Hyre,  so  long  divine, 
■tDegenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

6.  Must  we  but  weep  o’er  days  more  blest? 

Must  loe  but  blush  ? Our  fathers  hied. 
Earth ! render  back  from  out  thy  breast 
A remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 

Of  the  three  hundred,  grant  but  three, 

To  make  a new  '•'Thermopylae  ! 

7.  What,  silent  still  ? and  silent  all  ? 

Ah ! no ! the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a distant  '•'torrent’s  fall. 

And  answer,  ^‘Let  one  living  head, 

But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come!” 

’T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

8.  In  vain — in  vain! — strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  1 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  '•'hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio’s  vine  ! 

Hark!  rising  to  the  '•'ignoble  call. 

How  answers  each  bold  '•'Bacchanal ! 

9.  You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet. 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  '•'phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  ; 

Think  you  he  meant  them  for  a slave  ? 

10.  Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these  I 
it  made  '•'Anacreon’s  song  divine  ; 

He  served,  but  served  Polycrates, 

A tyrant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


319 


11.  The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  Freedom’s  best  and  bravest  friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades ! 

Oh!  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  '^'despot  of  the  kind! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

12.  Fill  high  the  boAvl  Avith  Samian  wine! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade; 

1 see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 

IMy  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 

To  think  such  breasts  must  pillow  slaves. 

13.  Place  me  on  Sunium’s  marbled  steep. 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 
May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die; 

A land  of  slaves  shall  ne’er  be  mine; 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 


CXXV.— ON  THE  REMOVAL  OF  THE  BRITISH  TROOPS. 

Extract  from  Lord  Chatham’s  speech,  in  favor  of  .the  removal  of 
the  British  troops  from  Boston,  delivered  in  the  House  of  Lords, 
January  20,  1775. 

1.  My  Lords;  when  I urge  this  measure  of  recalling  the 
troops  from  Boston,  I urge  it  on  the  pressing  principle,  that 
it  is  necessarily  preparatory  to  the  restoration  of  your  peace, 
and  the  establishment  of  your  prosperity.  It  will  then  appear, 
that  you  are  disposed  to  treat '•'amicably  and '•'equitably  ; and  to 
consider,  revise,  and  repeal  those  violent  acts  and  declarations 
which  have  '•'disseminated  confusion  throughout  your  empire. 

2.  Resistance  to  your  acts  was  necessary,  as  it  was  just; 
And  your  vain  declarations  of  the  '•'omnipotence  of  parliament, 
and  your  imperious  doctrines  of  the  necessity  of  submission, 
will  be  found  equally  impotent  to  convince,  or  to  enslave  your 
fellow-subjects  in  America,  who  feel,  that  tyranny,  whether 
exercised  by  an  individual  part  of  the  '•'legislature,  or  by  the 
bodies  which  compose  it,  is  equally  '•'intolerable  to  British 
subjects.  I therefore  urge  and  conjure  your  lordships,  imme- 
diately, to  adopt  this  '•'conciliatiog  measure.  I will  pledge 


320 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


myself  for  its  immediately  producing  conciliating  effects,  by 
its  being  thus  well-timed;  but,  if  you  delay  till  your  vain 
hope  shall  be  accomplished  of  triumphantly  '♦'dictating  terms 
of  '♦'reconciliation,  you  delay  forever. 

3.  But  admitting  that  this  hope  (which,  in  truth,  is  des- 
perate,) should  be  accomplished,  what  do  you  gain  by  the 
interposition  of  your  victorious  '♦'amity?  You  will  be  un- 
trusted and  unthanked.  Adopt  this  measure,  then,  and  allay 
the  '♦'ferment  prevailing  in  America,  by  removing  the  cause; 
a cause,  '♦'obnoxious  and  unserviceable ; for  the  merit  of  our 
army  can  only  be  in  action.  Its  force  would  be  most  '^dispro- 
portionately exerted  against  a brave,  generous,  and  united 
people,  with  arms  in  their  hands,  and  courage  in  their  hearts ; 
three  millions  of  people,  the  genuine  descendants  of  a valiant 
and  pious  ancestry,  driven  to  those  deserts  by  the  narrow 
'♦'maxims  of  a superstitious  tyranny. 

4.  And  is  the  spirit  of  persecution  never  to  be  appeased? 
Are  the  brave  sons  of  those  brave  forefathers  to  inherit  their 
sufferings  as  they  have  inherited  their  virtues?  Are  they  to 
sustain  the  infliction  of  the  most  oppressive  and  unexampled 
'♦'severity,  and  Anally,  because  it  is  the  wish  of  the  ministry, 
be  condemned  unheard?  My  lords,  the  Americans  have  been 
condemned,  unheard.  The  indiscriminate  hand  of  vengeance 
has  lumped  together  innocent  and  guilty;  and,  with  all  the 
formalities  of  hostility  has  blocked  up  the  town  of  Boston, 
and  reduced  to  beggary  and  famine,  its  thirty  thousand 
inhabitants. 

5.  But,  ministers  say,  that  the  union  in  America  can  not 
last.  Ministers  have  more  eyes  than  I have,  and  should  have 
more  ears ; but,  with  all  the  information  I have  been  able  to 
procure,  I can  pronounce  it  a union,  solid,  permanent,  and 
effectual.  It  is  based  upon  an  unconquerable  spirit  of  inde- 
pendence, which  is  not  new  among  them.  It  is,  and  has  ever 
been,  their  established  principle,  their  confirmed  '♦'persuasion ; 
it  is  their  nature  and  their  doctrine. 

6.  I remember,  some  years  ago,  when  the  repeal  of  the 
stamp  act  was  in  agitation,  conversing,  in  a friendly  confidence, 
with  a person  of  undoubted  respect  and  '♦'authenticity  on  that 
subject;  and  he  assured  me,  with  a certainty  which  his  judg- 
ment ai»d  opportunity  gave  him,  that  these  were  the '♦'prevalent 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


321 


and  steady  principles  of  America;  that  you  might  destroy 
their  towns,  and  cut  them  off  from  the  "^superffuities,  perhaps, 
the  conveniences  of  life;  but  that  they  were  prepared  to  de- 
spise your  power,  and  would  not  lament  their  loss,  while  they 
have — what,  my  lords?  their  woods  and  their  liberty  I 

7.  When  your  lordships  look  at  the  papers  '•'transmitted 
us  from  America ; when  you  consider  their  decency,  firmness, 
and  wisdom,  you  can  not  but  respect  their  cause,  and  wish  to 
make  it  your  own.  For  myself,  I must  declare  and  avow, 
that,  in  all  my  reading  and  observation,  and  it  has  been  my 
fiivorite  study, — I have  read  '•'Thucydides,  and  have  studied 
and  admired  the  master  states  of  the  world — that,  for  solid- 
ity of  reasoning,  force  of  '•'sagacity,  and  wisdom  of  conclu- 
sion, under  such  a '•'complication  of  difficult  circumstances, 
no  nation  or  body  of  men,  can  stand  in  preference  to  the 
general  Congress  at  Philadelphia. 

8.  I trust  it  is  obvious  to  your  lordships,  that  all  attempts 
to  impose  '•'servitude  upon  such  men;  to  establish  '•'despot- 
ism over  such  a mighty  '•'continental  nation,  must  be  vain ; 
must  be  fatal.  We  shall  be  forced '•'ultimately  to  retract;  let 
us  retract  while  we  can,  not  when  we  must.  I say  we  must 
necessarily  undo  these  violent,  oppressive  acts;  they  must  be 
repealed;  you  will  repeal  them;  I pledge  myself  for  it,  that 
you  will,  in  the  end,  repeal  them;  I stake  my  reputation  on 
it;  I will  consent  to  be  taken  for  an  idiot,  if  they  are  not 
finally  repealed.  Avoid,  then,  this  humiliating,  this  dis- 
graceful necessity.  With  a dignity  becoming  your  exalted 
situation,  make  the  first  advances  to  concord,  to  peace,  and 
happiness;  for  that  is  your  true  dignity,  to  act  with  prudence 
and  justice. 

9.  Every  motive,  therefore,  of  justice  and  of  '•'policy,  of 
dignity  and  of  prudence,  urges  you  to  allay  the  '•'ferment  in 
America,  by  a removal  of  your  troops  from  Boston ; by  a 
repeal  of  your  acts  of  parliament,  and  by  a '•'demonstration 
of  your  amicable  disposition  toward  your  colonies.  On  the 
other  hand,  every  danger  and  every  hazard  '•'impend,  to  deter 
you  from  perseverance  in  your  present  ruinous  measures. 
Foreign  war  is  hanging  over  your  heads  by  a slight  and 
brittle  thread,  and  France  and  Spain  are  watching  your 
conduct,  and  waiting  for  the  maturity  of  your  errors. 


322 


NEW  SIXTH  READER 


10.  To  conclude,  my  lords,  if  the  ministers  thus  perse- 
vere in  misadvising  and  misleading  the  king,  I will  not  say 
that  they  can  '^alienate  the  affections  of  his  subjects  from 
his  crown ; but  I will  affirm,  that  they  will  make  the  crown 
not  worth  his  to  earing ! I will  not  say,  that  the  king  is 
betrayed;  but  I will  pronounce  that  the  Idngdoin  is  undone! 


CXXVL— BATTLE  OF  BEAU  AN  DUINE. 

From  Walter  Scott. 

Beal*  an  Duine,  an  abbreviation  for  Beallach  an  Duine,  is  the  name 
of  a pass  or  +defile  between  two  eminences,  where  the  battle  described 
in  this  extract  is  supposed  to  have  taken  place.  The  parties  in  this  bat- 
tle were  the  forces  of  James  V.  of  Scotland,  on  one  side,  and  those  of 
Roderick  Dhu,  a rebel  subject  of  the  king,  on  the  other.  Roderick  him- 
self had  been  previously  taken  prisoner,  and  was  now  confined. 

The  minstrel  who  describes  the  battle  is  admitted  to  see  his  captive 
master,  Roderick,  and  at  his  command  ^portrays,  in  this  wild  burst  of 
poetry,  the  engagement  and  utter  defeat  of  the  rebel  troops. 

Trosach  was  the  name  of  the  region  in  which  lay  the  glen  of  Beal’  an 
Duine.  Moray  and  Mar  were  the  chiefs  at  the  head  of  the  king’s  forces. 

Clan -Alpine  was  the  name  of  Roderick’s  clan,  and  the  forces  of  this 
})arty  lay  concealed  in  the  glen,  intending  to  surprise  their  enemies  as 
they  approached,  but  were  themselves  entirely  defeated,  as  described  in 
t.bis  sketch. 

Tin'chell  ; a circle  of  hunters  closing  round  the  game. 

Erne  ; <he  sea-eagle  or  ospray. 

T.  The  Minstrel  came  once  more  to  view 
The  eastern  ridge  of  Benvenue, 

For  ere  he  parted,  he  would  say 
Farewell  to  lovely  Loch  Achray. 

Where  shall  he  find,  in  foreign  land, 

So  lone  a lake,  so  sweet  a '’'strand? 

There  is  no  breeze  upon  the  '’'fern. 

No  ripple  on  the  lake. 

Upon  her  aerie  nods  the  erne. 

The  deer  has  sought  the  brake ; 

The  small  birds  will  not  sing  aloud, 

The  springing  trout  lies  still. 

So  darkly  glooms  yon  thunder-cloud, 

That  '•'swathes,  as  with  a purple  shroud, 

Benledi’s  distant  hill. 

2.  Is  it  the  thunder’s  solemn  sound 
That  mutters  deep  and  dread, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


323 


Or  echoes  from  the  groaning  ground 
The  warrior’s  measured  tread? 

Is  it  the  lightning’s  quivering  glance 
That  on  the  thicket  streams, 

Or  do  they  flash  on  spear  and  lance 
The  sun’s  retiring  beams  ? 

I see  the  dagger-crest  of  Mar, 

1 see  the  Moray’s  silver  star. 

Wave  o’er  the  cloud  of  Saxon  war. 

That  up  the  lake  comes  winding  far  [ 

To  hero,  bound  for  battle  strife. 

Or  bard  of  '^'martial  lay, 

’T  were  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life, 

One  glance  at  their  array ! 

3.  Their  light-armed  archers  far  and  near, 

Surveyed  the  tangled  ground, 

Their  center  ranks,  with  pike  and  spear, 

A twilight  forest  frowned, 

Their  barbed  horsemen,  in  the  rear. 

The  stern  '^'battalia  crowned. 

No  ■^cymbal  clashed,  no  "tclarion  rang, 

Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum; 

Save  heavy  tread,  and  armor’s  clang, 

The  sullen  march  was  dumb. 

4.  There  breathed  no  wind  their  crests  to  shake, 

Or  wave  their  flags  abroad ; 

Scarce  the  frail  '’'aspen  seemed  to  quake, 

That  shadowed  o’er  their  road ; 

Their  '’  vanward  scouts  no  tidings  bring. 

Can  rouse  no  lurking  foe. 

Nor  spy  a trace  of  living  thing. 

Save  when  they  stirred  the  roe; 

The  host  moves,  like  a deep  sea- wave. 

Where  ride  no  rocks,  its  pride  to  brave, 
High-swelling,  dark,  and  slow. 

The  lake  is  passed,  and  now  they  gain 
A narrow  and  a broken  plain. 

Before  the  Trosach’s  rugged  jaws: 

And  here,  the  horse  and  spearmen  pause. 
While  to  explore  a dangerous  glen. 

Dive  through  the  pass  the  archer-men. 

5.  At  once  there  rose  so  wild  a yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell, 


324 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


As  all  the  fiends,  from  heaven  that  fell, 

Had  pealed  the  banner-cry  of  liell ! 

Forth  from  the  pass  in  tumult  driven, 

Like  chaff  before  the  wind  of  heaven, 

The  ^archery  appear; 

For  life!  for  life!  their  flight  they  ply; 

While  shriek,  and  shout,  and  battle-cry, 

And  plaids  and  bonnets  waving  high, 

And  broadswords  flashing  to  the  sky, 

Are  maddening  in  the  rear. 

6.  Onward  they  drive,  in  dreadful  race, 

Pursuers  and  pursued; 

Before  that  tide  of  flight  and  chase, 

How  shall  it  keep  its  rooted  place, 

The  spearmen’s  twilight  wood? 

“Down!  down!”  cried  Mar,  “your  lances  down! 

Bear  back  both  friend  and  foe!” 

Like  reeds  before  the  tempest’s  frown. 

That  '‘'serried  grove  of  lances  brown 
At  once  lay  leveled  low; 

And  closely  shouldering  side  to  side, 

The  bristling  ranks  the  onset  bide, 

“We’ll  quell  the  savage  '‘'mountaineer, 

As  their  Tinchell  cows  the  game! 

They  come  as  fleet  as  mountain  deer. 

We’ll  drive  them  back  as  tame.” 

7c  Bearing  before  them  in  their  course 
The  relics  of  the  archer  force, 

Like  wave  with  crest  of  sparkling  foam. 

Right  onward  did  Clan- Alpine  come. 

Above  their  tide,  each  broadsword  bright 
Was  '‘'brandishing  like  gleam  of  light, 

Each  '‘'targe  was  dark  below; 

And  with  the  ocean’s  mighty  swing. 

When  heaving  to  the  tempest’s  wing. 

They  hurled  them  on  the  foe. 

I heard  the  lance’s  shivering  crash, 

As  when  the  whirlwind  rends  the  ash; 

1 heard  the  broadsword’s  deadly  clang, 

As  if  a hundred  '‘'anvils  rang ; 

But  Moray  wheeled  his  '‘'rearward  rank 
Of  horsemen  on  Clan- Alpine’s  flank, 

“ My  banner-man,  advance  1 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


325 


I see,”  he  cried,  “their  column  shake. 

Now,  gallants ! for  your  ladies’  sake, 

Upon  them  Avith  the  lance ! ’’ 

8.  The  horsemen  dashed  among  the  rout 
As  deer  break  through  the  broom ; 

Their  steeds  are  stout,  their  swords  are  out, 
They  soon  made  ''lightsome  room. 
Clan-Alpine’ s best  are  backward  borne; 

Where,  Avhere  Avas  Roderick  then  ? 

One  blast  upon  his  bugle-horn 
Were  Avorth  a thousand  men. 

And  ■''refluent  through  the  pass  of  fear, 

The  battle’s  tide  Avas  poured ; 

Vanished  the  Saxon’s  struggling  spear. 
Vanished  the  mountain  sword. 

As  Bracklinn’s  '•'chasm,  so  black  and  steep 
Receives  her  roaring  '•'linn. 

As  the  dark  caverns  of  the  deep 
Suck  the  wild  Avhirlpool  in. 

So  did  the  deep  and  darksome  pass 
Devour  the  battle’s  mingled  mass ; 

None  linger  now  upon  the  plain. 

Save  those  who  ne’er  shall  fight  again. 


CXXVIl.  -THE  BAPTISM. 

From  Wilson. 

John  Wilson,  for  more  than  thirty  years  Professor  in  the  Univer^ 
sity  of  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  is  better  known  as  the  principal  editoi* 
of  Blackwood’s  Magazine,  and  its  chief  contributor,  under  the  name 
of  Christopher  North.  He  has  written  numerous  interesting  tales, 
descriptive  of  Scotch  life  and  manners. 

Xirk;  Scotch  for  Church.  Kittle;  dangerous,  ticklish. 

1.  The  rite  of  baptism  had  not  been  performed  for  several 
months  in  the  kirk  of  Lanark.  It  was  now  the  hottest  time 
of  persecution  ; and  the  inhabitants  of  that  parish  found 
other  places  in  which  to  worship  Grod  and  celebrate  the 
■•'ordinances  of  religion.  It  was  now  the  sabbath-day,  and 
a small  congregation  of  about  a hundred  souls,  had  met  for 
divine  service,  in  a place  more  magnificent  than  any  temple 


326 


NEW  SIXTH  READER 


that  human  hands  had  ever  built  to  Deity.  The  congrega- 
tion had  not  assembled  to  the  toll  of  the  bell,  but  each  heart 
knew  the  hour  and  observed  it;  for  there  are  a hundred  sun- 
dials among  the  hills,  woods,  moors,  and  fields;  and  the 
shepherd  and  the  peasant  see  the  hours  passing  by  them,  in 
sunshine  and  shadow. 

2.  The  church  in  which  they  were  assembled  was  hewn  by 
God’s  hand,  out  of  the  eternal  rock.  A river  rolled  its  way 
through  a mighty  chasm  of  cliffs,  several  hundred  feet  high, 
of  which  the  one  side  presented  '^'enormous  masses,  and  the 
other,  corresponding  '^recesses,  as  if  the  great  stone  girdle 
had  been  rent  by  a '^'convulsion.  The  channel  was  over- 
spread with  prodigious  '^'fragments  of  rocks  or  large  loose 
stones,  some  of  them  smooth  and  bare,  others  containing 
soil  and  verdure  in  their  rents  and  fissures,  and  here  and 
there,  crowned  with  shrubs  and  trees.  The  eye  could  at  once 
command  a long-stretching  vista,  seemingly  closed  and  shut 
up  at  both  extremities  by  the  '^'coalescing  cliffs.  This  ma- 
jestic reach  of  river  contained  pools,  streams,  and  "^water- 
falls innumerable;  and  when  the  water  was  low — which  was 
now  the  case,  in  the  common  drought — it  was  easy  to  walk 
up  this  scene  with  the  calm,  blue  sky  overhead,  an  utter  and 
sublime  solitude. 

8.  On  looking  up,  the  soul  was  bowed  down  by  the  feel- 
ing of  that  prodigious  height  of '•'unscalable,  and  often  over- 
hanging cliff.  Between  the  channel  and  the  summit  of  the 
far  '•'extended  precipices,  were  perpetually  flying  rooks  and 
wood-pigeons,  and  now  and  then  a hawk,  filling  the  profound 
abyss  with  their  wild  '•'cawing,  deep  murmur,  or  shrilly  shriek. 
Sometimes  a heron  would  stand  erect  and  still,  on  some  little 
stone  island,  or  rise  up  like  a white  cloud  along  the  black 
walls  of  the  chasm,  and  disappear.  Winged  creatures  alone 
could  inhabit  this  region.  The  fox  and  wild  cat  chose  more 
accessible  haunts.  Yet,  here  came  the  persecuted  Christians 
and  worshiped  God,  whose  hand  hung  over  their  head  those 
magnificent  pillars  and  arches,  scooped  out  those  galleries 
from  the  solid  rock,  and  laid  at  their  feet  the  calm  water,  in 
its  transparent  beauty,  in  which  they  could  see  themselves 
sitting  in  reflected  groups,  with  their  Bibles  in  their  hands. 

4.  Here,  upon  a semicircular  ledge  of  rocks,  over  a narrow 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


327 


chasm  of  which,  the  tiny  stream  played  in  a murmuring 
water-fall,  and  divided  the  congregation  into  two  equal  parts, 
sat  about  a hundred  persons,  all  devoutly  listening  to  their 
minister,  who  stood  before  them  on  what  might  be  called  a 
small,  natural  pulpit  of  living  stone.  Up  to  it  there  led  a 
short  flight  of  steps,  and  over  it  waved  the  canopy  of  a tall, 
graceful  birch-tree.  The  pulpit  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
channel,  directly  facing  the  congregation,  and  separated  from 
them  by  the  clear,  deep,  sparkling  pool,  into  which  the  scarce 
heard  water  poured  over  the  blackened  rock.  The  water,  as 
it  left  the  pool,  separated  into  two  streams,  and  flowed  on 
each  side  of  that  altar,  thus  placing  it  in  an  island,  whose 
large  mossy  stones  were  richly  '^embowered  under  the  golden 
blossoms  and  green  tresses  of  the  broom. 

5.  At  the  close  of  divine  service,  a row  of  maidens,  all 
clothed  in  purest  white,  came  gliding  off  from  the  congre- 
gation, and  crossing  the  murmuring  stream  on  stepping 
stones,  arranged  themselves  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit,  with 
those  who  were  about  to  be  baptized.  Their  devout  fathers, 
just  as  though  they  had  been  in  their  own  kirk,  had  been 
sitting  there  during  worship,  and  now  stood  up  before  the 
minister.  The  '^'baptismal  water,  taken  from  that  "^pellucid 
pool,  was  lying,  consecrated,  in  an  appropriate  '^'receptacle, 
formed  by  the  upright  stones  that  composed  one  side  of  the 
pulpit,  and  the  holy  rite  proceeded. 

6.  Some  of  the  younger  ones  in  that  semicircle,  kept  gaz- 
ing down  into  the  pool,  in  which  the  whole  scene  was  re- 
flected ; and  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  the  grave  looks  and 
^admonishing  whispers  of  their  elders,  letting  fall  a peb- 
ble into  the  water,  that  they  might  judge  of  its  depth,  from 
the  length  of  time  that  elapsed  before  the  clear  air-bells 
lay  sparkling  on  the  agitated  surface.  The  rite  was  over,  and 
the  religious  service  of  the  day  closed  by  a psalm.  The 
mighty  rocks  hemmed  in  the  holy  sound,  and  sent  it  in  a 
more  '’’compact  volume,  clear,  sweet,  and  strong,  up  to  heaven. 
When  the  psalm  ceased,  an  echo,  like  a spirit’s  voice  was 
heard  dying  away,  high  up  among  the  magnificent  '’'archi- 
tecture of  the  clilfs ; and  once  more  might  be  noticed  in  the 
silence,  the  reviving  voice  of  the  water-fall. 

7.  Just  then,  a large  stone  fell  from  the  top  of  the  cliff 


328 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


into  the  pool,  a loud  voice  was  heard,  and  a plaid  was  hung 
over  on  the  point  of  a shepherd’s  staff.  Their  wakeful  sen- 
tinel had  descried  danger,  and  this  was  his  warning.  Forth- 
with, the  congregation  rose.  There  were  paths,  dangerous  to 
■^unpracticed  feet,  along  the  ledges  of  the  rocks,  leading  up  to 
several  caves  and  places  of  concealment.  The  more  active 
and  young  assisted  the  elder,  more  especially  the  old  pastor, 
and  the  women  with  the  infants;  and  many  minutes  had  not 
elapsed,  till  not  a living  creature  was  visible  in  the  channel 
of  the  stream,  but  all  of  them  were  hidden,  or  nearly  so,  in 
the  clefts  and  caverns. 

8.  The  shepherd,  who  had  given  the  alarm,  had  lain  down 

again  instantly  in  his  plaid  on  the  greensward,  upon  the 
summit  of  these  precipices.  A party  of  soldiers  was  immedi- 
ately upon  him,  and  demanded  Avhat  signals  he  had  been 
making,  and  to  whom ; when  one  of  them  looking  over  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  exclaimed,  “ See,  see ! Humphrey,  we  have 
caught  the  whole  tabernacle  of  the  Lord  in  a net,  at  last. 
There,  they  are,  praising  Hod  among  the  stones  of  the  river 
Mouss.  These  are  the  Cartland  Craigs.  A noble  '^cathe- 
dral ! ” “ Fling  the  lying  sentinel  over  the  cliffs.  Here  is  a 

■♦'canting  '♦'covenanter  for  you,  deceiving  honest  soldiers  on 
the  very  sabbath-day.  Over  with  him,  over  with  him;  out 
of  the  gallery  into  the  pit.”  But  the  shepherd  had  vanished 
like  a shadow,  and  mixing  with  the  tall,  green  broom  and 
bushes,  was  making  his  unseen  way  toward  a wood.  Satan  has 
saved  his  servant;  but  come,  my  lads,  follow  me.  I know  the 
way  down  into  the  bed  of  the  stream,  and  the  steps  up  to 
Wallace’s  cave.  They  are  called,  ^kittle  nine  stanes.’  The 
hunt’s  up.  We’ll  all  be  in  at  the  death.  Halloo!  my 
boys,  halloo ! ” 

9.  The  soldiers  dashed  down  a less  precipitous  part  of  the 
wooded  banks,  a little  below  the  ‘‘craigs,”  and  hurried  up  the 
channel.  But  when  they  reached  the  altar  where  the  old 
gray-haired  minister  had  been  seen  standing,  and  the  rocks 
that  had  been  covered  with  people,  all  was  silent  and  solitary ; 
not  a creature  to  be  seen.  “Here  is  a Bible,  dropped  by 
some  of  them,”  cried  a soldier,  and,  with  his  foot,  spun  it 
away  into  the  pool.  “A  bonnet,  a bonnet,”  cried  another; 
“now  for  the  pretty,  '♦sanctified  face,  that  rolled  its  '♦'demure 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


329 


eyes  below  it.”  But  after  a few  jests  and  oaths,  the  soldiers 
stood  still,  eying  with  a kind  of  mysterious  dread,  the  black 
and  silent  walls  of  the  rocks  that  hemmed  them  in,  and  hear- 
ing only  the  small  voice  of  the  stream  that  sent  a profounder 
stillness  through  the  heart  of  that  majestic  solitude.  “ What 
if  these  cow^ardly  covenanters  should  tumble  down  upon  our 
heads  pieces  of  rock,  from  their  hiding  places?  Advance? 
or  retreat?  ” 

10.  There  was  no  reply;  for  a slight  fear  was  upon  every 
man.  Musket  or  bayonet  could  be  of  little  use  to  men  obliged 
to  clamber  up  rocks,  along  slender  paths,  leading  they  know 
not  where.  And  they  were  aware  that  armed  men,  nowa- 
days worshiped  God ; men  of  iron  hearts,  who  feared  not  the 
glitter  of  the  soldier’s  arms,  neither  barrel  nor  bayonet;  men 
of  long  stride,  firm  step,  and  broad  breast,  who,  on  the  open 
field,  would  hnve  overthrown  the  '^marshaled  line,  and  gone 
first  and  foremost,  if  a city  had  to  be  taken  by  storm. 

11.  As  the  soldiers  were  standing  together  irresolute,  a 
noise  came  upon  their  ears  like  distant  thunder,  but  even 
more  '^'appalling ; and  a slight  current  of  air,  as  if  propelled 
by  it,  passed  whispering  along  the  sweet-briers,  and  the  broom, 
and  the  "^tresses  of  the  birch-trees.  It  came  deepening,  and 
rolling,  and  roaring  on  ; and  the  very  Cartland  Craigs  shook 
to  their  foundation,  as  if  in  an  earthquake.  “ The  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  us!  what  is  this?”  And  down  fell  many  of  the 
miserable  wretches  on  their  knees,  and  some  on  their  faces, 
upon  the  sharp-pointed  rocks.  Now,  it  was  like  the  sound 
of  many  myriads  of  chariots  rolling  on  their  iron  axles,  down 
the  strong  channel  of  the  torrent.  The  old,  gray-haired 
minister  issued  from  the  mouth  of  Wallace’s  cave,  and  said 
in  a loud  voice,  “The  Lord  God  terrible  reigneth ! ” 

12.  A water-spout  had  burst  up  among  the  '*'moor-lands,  and 
the  river,  in  its  power,  was  at  hand.  There  it  came,  tumbling 
along  into  that  long  reach  of  cliffs,  and,  in  a moment,  filled  it 
with  one  mass  of  waves.  Huge,  agitated  clouds  of  foam  rode 
on  the  surface  of  a blood-red  torrent.  An  army  must  have 
been  swept  off  by  that  flood.  The  soldiers  perished  in  a mo- 
ment; but,  high  up  in  the  cliffs,  above  the  sweep  of  destruc- 
tion, were  the  covenanters,  men,  women,  and  children,  uttering 
prayers  to  God,  unheard  by  themselves,  in  the  raging  thunder. 


;330 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


CXXVITT.— THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

From  Longfellow. 

1.  There  is  a Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  '*'sickle  keen, 

Ho  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a breath. 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

2.  “Shall  I have  naught  that  is  fair?”  saith  he; 

“Have  naught  but  the  bearded  grain? 

Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 
I will  give  them  all  back  again.” 

3.  He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes. 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise, 

He  bound  them  in  his  ^sheaves. 

4.  “My  Lord  has  need  of  these  "^flowerets  gay,” 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled ; 

“ Dear  ■*' tokens  of  the  earth  are  they. 

Where  he  was  once  a child. 

5.  “They  shall  all  bloom  in  the  fields  of  light, 

■'  Transplanted  by  my  care. 

And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear.” 

fl.  And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain. 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

7.  O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath. 

The  Reaper  came  that  day; 

'Twas  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


331 


CXXTX.— RUNYAN’S  “PILGRIM’S  PROGRESS.” 

From  Macaulay. 

John  Runyan  was  born  in  1628.  In  the  early  part  of  his  life,  he 
was  noted  for  his  profligacy  and  wickedness,  but  subsequently  re- 
formed and  became  a preacher  of  the  Raptist  denomination.  During 
his  imprisonment  for  holding  religious  assemblies,  he  wrote  (he  cele- 
brated Pilgrim  s Progress.  He  died  in  1688. 

Thomas  Rabington  Macaulay,  author  of  this  extract,  and  for  some 
years  member  of  the  English  Parliament,  was  a man  of  great  erudi- 
tion in  almost  every  department  of  knowledge.  Ilis  Lays  of  Ancient 
Pome.,  his  Critical  and  Historical  Essays,  and  his  History  of  England,  have 
a high  reputation. 

1.  The  characteristic  peculiarity  of  the  ••  Pilgrim’s  Prog- 
ress” is,  that  it  is  the  only  work  of  its  kind  which  possesses 
a strong  human  interest.  Other  '^allegories  only  amuse  the 
fancy.  The  allegory  of  Bunyan  has  been  read  by  many  thou- 
sands with  tears.  There  are  some  good  allegories  in  John- 
son’s works,  and  some  of  still  higher  merit  in  Addison’s. 
In  these  performances,  there  is,  perhaps,  as  much  wit  and 
ingenuity,  as  in  the  “Pilgrim’s  Progress.”  But  the  pleasure 
which  is  produced  by  the  vision  of  Mirza,  or  the  vision  of 
Theodore,  or  the  contest  between  Best  and  Labor,  is  exactly 
similar  to  the  pleasure  which  we  derive  from  one  of  Cowley’s 
odes,  or  from  a canto  of  Hudibras.  It  is  a pleasure  which 
belongs  wholly  to  the  understanding,  and  in  which  the  feel- 
ings have  no  part  whatever. 

2.  It  is  not  with  the  “Pilgrim’s  Progress.”  That  won- 
derful book,  while  it  obtains  admiration  from  the  most  ^fas- 
tidious '^critics,  is  i.  ved  by  those  who  are  too  simple  ad- 
mire it.  Doctor  Johnson,  all  whose  studies  were  'desultory, 
and  who  hated,  as  he  said,  to  read  books  through,  made  an 
exception  in  favor  of  the  “Pilgrim’s  Progress.”  That  work, 
he  said,  was  one  of  the  two  or  three  works  which  he  wished 
longer.  In  the  wildest  parts  of  Scotland,  the  “ Pilgrim’s 
Progress”  is  the  delight  of  the  peasantry.  In  every  nursery, 
the  “Pilgrim’s  Progress”  is  a greater  favorite  than  Jack  the 
Giant  Killer.  Every  reader  knows  the  straight  and  narrow 
path,  as  well  as  he  knows  a road  in  which  he  has  gone  back- 
ward and  forward  a hundred  times.  This  is  the  highest 


332 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


miracle  of  genius,  that  things  which  are  not,  should  be  as 
though  they  were  ^ that  the  imaginations  of  one  mind,  should 
become  the  personal  recollections  of  another.  And  this  mir- 
acle, Bunyan  the  tinker  has  wrought. 

3.  There  is  no  ascent,  no  "^declivity,  no  resting  place,  no 
'^'turnstile,  with  which  we  are  not  perfectly  acquainted.  The 
wicket-gate  and  the  desolate  swamp  which  separates  it  from 
the  City  of  Destruction;  the  long  line  of  road,  as  straight  as 
a rule  can  make  it;  the  Interpreter’s  house  and  all  its  fair 
shows ; all  the  stages  of  the  journey,  all  the  forms  which  cross 
or  overtake  the  pilgrims,  giants,  and  '^'hobgoblins,  ill-favored 
ones  and  shining  ones;  the  tall,  comely,  '^swarthy  Madam 
Bubble,  with  her  great  purse  by  her  side,  and  her  fingers 
playing  with  the  money ; the  black  man  in  the  bright  vesture ; 
Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  and  My  Lord  Hategood,  Mr.  Talka- 
tive and  Mrs.  Timorous;  all  are  actually  existing  beings  to 
us.  We  follow  the  travelers  through  their  allegorical  prog- 
ress, with  interest  not  inferior  to  that  with  which  we  follow 
Elizabeth  from  Siberia  to  Moscow,  or  Jeanie  Deans  from 
Edinburgh  to  London. 

4.  Bunyan  is  almost  the  only  writer  that  ever  gave  to  the 
■‘'abstract,  the  interest  of  the  '^concrete.  In  the  works  of 
many  celebrated  authors,  men  are  mere  '‘'personifications. 
We  have  not  an  Othello,  but  jealousy;  not  an  lago,  but 
perfidy ; not  a Brutus,  but  patriotism.  The  mind  of  Bun- 
yan, on  the  contrary,  was  so  imaginative,  that  personifications, 
when  he  dealt  with  them,  became  men.  A dialogue  between 
two  qualities,  in  his  dream,  has  more  '‘'dramatic  effect  than  a 
dialogue  between  two  human  beings  in  m st  plays. 

5.  The  style  of  Bunyan  is  delightful  to  every  reader,  and 
invaluable  as  a study  to  every  person  who  wishes  to  obtain  a 
wide  command  over  the  English  language.  The  '‘'vocabu- 
lary is  the  vocabulary  of  the  common  people.  There  is  not 
an  expression,  if  we  except  a few  '‘'technical  terms  of  '‘'theology, 
which  would  puzzle  the  rudest  peasant.  We  have  observed 
several  pages  which  do  not  contain  a single  word  of  more 
than  two  syllables.  Yet  no  writer  has  said  more  exactly  what 
he  meant  to  say.  For  magnificence,  for  pathos,  for  '‘'vehe- 
ment fexhortation,  for  isubtlet  disquisition,  for  every  purpose 
of  the  poet,  tlic  orator  and  the  divine,  this  homely  '‘'dia- 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


3e33 

lect,  llic  dialect  of  plain  working  men,  was  perfectly  sufficient. 
Tlicrc  is  no  book  in  our  literature,  on  wblcb  we  would  so  read- 
ily stake  the  fame  of  the  old,  unpolluted  English  language; 
no  book  which  shows  so  well,  how  rich  (hat  language  is,  in 
its  own  proper  wealth,  and  how  little  it  has  been  improved 
by  all  that  it  has  borrowed. 

G.  Cowper  said,  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago,  that  he  dared  not 
name  John  Bunyan  in  his  verse,  for  fear  of  moving  a sneer. 
We  live  in  better  times;  and  we  are  not  afraid  to  say  that, 
though  there  were  many  clever  men  in  England  during  the 
latter  half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  there  were  only  two 
great  creative  minds.  One  of  these  produced  the  “Paradise 
Lost.”  the  other  tlie  “Pilgrim’s  Progress.” 


eXXX.— THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

Fro:.!  IT.  K.  White. 

Henry  Kirkp:  White  was  born  at  Xottingham,  England,  in  1785. 
From  his  earliest  years  he  exhibited  an  ardent  passion  for  literature, 
and,  through  the  kindness  of  his  friends,  he  was  enabled  enter  the 
University  of  Cambridge,  where  his  too  great  devotion  to  study  brought 
on  a fatal  disease.  He  died  in  1806. 

1.  When  '^marshaled  on  the  nightly  plain. 

The  glittering  -host  bestud  the  sky ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 

Can  fix  the  sinner’s  Avan dering  eye. 

Hark!  hark!  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 

From  every  host,  from  every  gem; 

But  one  alone,  the  Savior  speaks. 

It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

2.  Once,  on  the  raging  seas  I rode ; 

The  storm  was  loud,  the  night  was  dark. 

The  ocean  yawned,  and  rudely  blowed 

The  wdnd  that  tossed  my  ^foundering  bark 
Beep  horror  then  my  tvitals  froze. 

Death-struck,  I ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 

When  suddenly  a star  arose. 

It  Avas  the  Star  of  Bethlehem . 

3.  It  Avas  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all. 

It  bade  my  dark  '•'forebodings  cease 
And  througli  the  storm  and  danger’s  thrall, 

28 


334 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 
Now,  safely  moored,  my  perils  o’er, 
1 ’ll  sing,  first  in  night’s  "diadem, 
Forever  and  for  evermore. 

The  Star,  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 


CXXXL-THE  BEST  KIND  OF  REVr.NGE. 

1.  Some  years  ago,  a '‘'warehouseman  in  Manchester^  Eng- 
land, published  a '‘'scurrilous  pamphlet,  in  which  he  endeav- 
ored to  hold  up  the  house  of  Grant  Brothers  to  lidicule. 
William  Grant  remarked  upon  the  occurrence,  that  the  man 
would  live  to  repent  of  what  he  had  done  ; and  this  was  con- 
veyed by  some  tale-bearer  to  the  libeler,  who  said,  “O,  I 
suppose  he  thinks  I shall  some  time  or  other  be  in  his  debt; 
but  I will  take  good  care  of  that.”  It  happens,  however,  that 
a man  in  business  can  not  always  choose  who  shall  be  his 
■♦'creditors.  The  pamphleteer  became  a '♦'bankrupt,  and  the 
brothers  held  an '♦'acceptance  of  his,  which  had  been  '♦'indorsed 
to  them  by  the  drawer,  wlio  liad  also  become  a bankrupt. 

2.  The  v/antonly-libeled  men  had  thus  become  creditors 
of  the  libeler ! They  now  had  it  in  their  power  to  make 
him  repent  of  his  audacity.  He  pould  not  obtain  his  cer- 
tificate without  their  signature,  and  without  it  he  could  not 
enter  into  business  again.  He  had  obtained  the  number  of 
signatures  required  by  the  bankrupt  law,  except  one.  It 
seemed  folly  to  hope  that  the  firm  of  ‘Ghe  brothers”  would 
supply  the  '♦'deficiency.  What!  they,  who  had  cruelly  been 
made  the  laughing-stock  of  the  public,  forget  the  wrong  and 
favor  the  wrong-doer?  He  despaired.  But  the  claims  of  a 
wife  and  children  forced  him  at  last  to  make  the  application. 
Humbled  by  misery,  he  presented  himself  at  the  counting- 
house  of  the  wronged. 

3.  Mr.  William  Grant  was  there  alone,  and  his  first 
words  to  the '♦'delinquent  were,  “Shut  the  door,  sir!”  sternly 
uttered.  The  door  was  shut,  and  the  libeler  stood  trembling- 
before  the  libeled.  He  told  his  tale,  and  produced  his  cer- 
tificate, which  was  instantly  clutched  by  the  injured  merchant. 
“You  wrote  a pamphlet  against  us  once!”  exclaimed  Mr. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


335 


Grant.  The  supplicant  expected  to  see  his  '‘'parchment  thrown 
into  the  fire.  But  this  was  not  its  '‘'destination.  Mr.  Grant 
took  a pen,  and  writing  something  upon  the  document,  handed 
it  back  to  the  bankrupt.  He,  poor  wretch,  expected  to  see 
‘‘rogue,  scoundrel,  libeler,”  inscribed;  but  there  was,  in  fair 
round  characters,  the  signature  of  the  firm. 

4.  “We  make  it  a rule,”  said  Mr.  Grant,  “never  to  refuse 
sigrnino:  the  certificate  of  an  honest  tradesman,  and  we  have 
never  heard  that  you  were  any  thing  else.”  The  tears  started 
into  the  poor  man’s  eyes.  “Ah,”  said  Mr.  Grant,  “my  say- 
ing was  true!  I said  you  would  live  to  repent  writing  that 
pamphlet.  I did  not  mean  it  as  a threat.  I only  meant  that 
some  day  you  would  know  us  better,  and  be  sorry  you  had 
tried  to  injure  us.  I see  you  repent  of  it  now.”  “ I do,  I do  1 ” 
said  the  grateful  man;  “I  bitterly  repent  it.”  “Well,  well, 
my  dear  fellow,  you  know  us  now.  How  do  you  get  on? 
AVhat  are  you  going  to  do?”  The  poor  man  stated  he  had 
friends  who  could  assist  him  when  his  certificate  was  obtained. 
“But  how  are  you  off  in  the  mean  time?” 

5.  And  the  answ^er  was,  that,  having  given  up  every  far- 
thing to  his  creditors,  he  had  been  compelled  to  ‘'stint  his 
family  of  even  common  necessaries,  that  he  might  be  enabled 
to  pay  the  cost  of  his  certificate.  “ My  dear  fellow,  this  will 
not  do;  your  family  must  not  suffer.  Be  kind  enough  to  take 
this  ten-pound  note  to  your  wife  from  me.  There,  there,  my 
dear  fellow!  Nay,  do  not  cry;  it  will  all  be  w^ell  with  you 
yet.  Keep  up  your  spirits,  set  to  work  like  a man,  and  you 
will  raise  your  head  among  us  yet.”  The  overpowered  man 
endeavored  in  vain  to  express  his  thanks;  the  swelling  in  his 
throat  forbade  words.  He  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  face, 
and  went  out  of  the  door,  crying  like  a child. 


CXXXTI.— THE  GLOVE  AND  THE  LION, 

From  Leigh  Hunt. 

Leigh  Hunt,  an  English  poet,  was  born  in  1784.  His  writings,  prose 
and  poetic,  are  full  of  life  and  beauty. 

1.  King  Francis  was  a "‘'hearty  king,  and  loved  a royal  sport, 
And  one  day  as  his  lions  fought,  sat  looking  on  the  court; 


NEW  SIXTH  READEH. 


The  nobles  filled  the  benches  round,  the  ladies  by  their  side, 
And  ’mong  them  sat  the  Count  de  Lorge,  with  one  for  whom 
he  sighed: 

And  truly  ’twas  a ^gallant  thing  to  see  that  crowning  show, 
Valor  and  love,  and  a king  above,  and  the  royal  beasts  below. 

2.  Ramped  and  roared  the  lions,  with  horrid  laughing  jaws; 
They  bit,  they  glared,  gave  blows  like  beams,  a wind  went  with 

their  paws ; 

With  ^wallowing  might  and  stifled  roar,  they  rolled  on  one 
another : 

Till  all  the  pit,  with  sand  and  mane,  was  in  a thunderous 
smother; 

The  bloody  foam  above  the  bars  came  '•'whizzing  through  the 
air:  [there.’' 

Said  Francis,  then,  “Faith,  gentlemen,  we’re  better  here  than 

3.  De  Lorge’s  love  o’erheard  the  king,  a beauteous,  lively  '•'dame, 
With  smiling  lips,  and  sharp,  bright  eyes,  which  always  seemed 

the  same ; 

She  thought,  “The  Count,  my  lover,  is  brave  as  brave  can  be. 
He  surely  would  do  wondrous  things  to  show  his  love  for  me; 
King,  ladies,  lovers,  all  look  on;  the  occasion  is  divine; 

I’ll  drop  my  glove  to  prove  his  love;  great  glory  will  be  mine.” 

4.  She  dropped  her  glove  to  prove  his  love,  then  looked  at  him 

and  smiled; 

He  bowed,  and  in  a moment  leaped  among  the  lions  wild; 
The  leap  was  quick,  return  was  quick,  he  soon  regained  the 
place,  ' [face. 

Then  threw  the  glove,  but  not  with  love,  right  in  the  lady’s 
“In  faith,”  cried  Francis,  “rightly  done!”  and  he  rose  from 
where  he  sat; 

“No  love^'  quoth  he,  “but  vanity^  sets  love  a task  like  that.” 


CXXXlll.— THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM. 
From  Southey. 

J.  It  was  on  a summer  evening, 

Old  Kaspar’s  work  was  done, 

And  he,  before  his  cottage  door, 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun. 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green, 

His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 


ECLKCTIC  SERI  P]S. 


337 


2.  She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 

Which  he  beside  the  +rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 

That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

3.  Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy. 

Who  stood  ■’’expectant  by ; 

And  then  the  old  man  shook  liis  head. 
And,  with  a natural  sigh, 

“’Tis  some  poor  fellow’s  skull,”  said  he, 

“ Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

4.  “1  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there ’s  many  here  about; 

And  often  when  I go  to  plow, 

The  plowshare  turns  them  out; 

For  many  thousand  men,”  said  he, 

“Were  slain  in  that  great  victory.” 

5.  “Now  tell  us  what  ’twas  all  about,” 

Young  Peterkin,  he  cries; 

While  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up, 

With  wonder- waiting  eyes; 

“Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 

And  what  they  killed  each  other  for  ” 

6.  “It  was  the  English,’'  Kaspar  cried, 

“ Who  put  the  French  to  rout. 

But  what  they  killed  each  other  for, 

I could  not  well  make  out; 

But  every  body  said,”  quoth  he, 

“That  ’twas  a '’’famous  '•’victory : 

7.  “My  father  lived  at  '•’Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream,  hard  by; 

They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground. 
And  he  was  forced  to  fly; 

So,  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 

Noi  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

8.  “ With  fire  and  sword,  the  country  round 

Was  wasted,  far  and  wide; 

And  many  a nursing  mother  then. 

And  new-born  baby  died; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 


338 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


9.  “ They  say  it  was  a shocking  sight 
After  the  hold  was  won; 

For  many  thousand  bodies  here 
Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  ; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a famous  victory. 

10.  “Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro’  won, 

And  our  young  prince,  Eugene.” 
“Why,  ’twas  a very  wicked  thing!” 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 

“Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl!”  quoth  he, 

“It  was  a famous  victory. 

11.  “And  every  body  praised  the  Duke 

Who  this  great  fight  did  win.” 

“ But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?” 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

“Why,  that  I can  not  tell,”  said  he, 

“But ’t  was  a glorious  victory.” 


CXXXIV.— TACT  AND  TALENT. 

1.  Talent  is  something,  but  tact  is  every  thing.  Talent 
is  serious,  sober,  grave,  and  respectable  : tact  is  all  that,  and 
more  too.  It  is  not  a sixth  sense,  but  it  is  the  life  of  all  the 
five.  It  is  the  open  eye,  the  quick  car,  the  judging  taste,  the 
keen  smell,  and  the  lively  touch ; it  is  the  '‘'interpreter  of  all 
riddles,  the  "''surmounter  of  all  difficultie:^,  the  remover  of 
all  '’obstacles.  It  is  useful  in  all  places,  and  at  all  times;  it 
is  useful  in  solitude,  for  it  shows  a man  into  the  world ; it  is 
useful  in  society,  for  it  shows  him  his  way  through  the  world. 

2.  Talent  is  power,  tact  is  skill ; talent  is  weight,  tact  is 
momentum  ; talent  knows  what  to  do,  tact  knows  how  to  do  it; 
talent  makes  a man  respectable,  tact  will  make  him  respected ; 
talent  is  wealth,  tact  is  ready  money.  For  all  the  practical 
purposes,  tact  carries  it  against  talent  ten  to  one. 

H.  Take  them  to  the  theater,  and  put  them  against  each 
other  on  the  stage,  and  talent  shall  produce  you  a '’'tragedy 
that  shall  scarcely  live  long  enough  to  be  condemned,  while  tact 
keeps  the  house  in  a roar,  night  after  night,  with  its  successful 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


339 


’^'farces.  There  Is  no  want  of  '^dramatic  talent,  there  is  no 
want  of  dramatic  tact;  but  they  are  seldom  together:  so  we 
have  successful  pieces  which  are  not  respectable,  and  respect- 
able pieces  which  are  not  successful. 

4.  Take  them  to  the  bar,  and  let  them  shake  their  learned 
curls  at  each  other  in  legal  '’'rivalry ; talent  sees  its  way  clearly, 
but  tact  is  first  at  its  journey’s  end.  Talent  has  many  a 
compliment  from  the  bench,  but  tact  touches  fees.  Talent 
makes  the  world  wonder  that  it  gets  on  no  faster,  tact 
arouses  astonishment  that  it  gets  on  so  fast.  iVnd  the  secret 
is,  that  it  has  no  weight  to  carry;  it  makes  no  false  steps;  it 
hits  the  right  nail  on  the  head;  it  loses  no  time;  it  takes  all 
hints ; and  by  keeping  its  eye  on  the  weather-cock,  is  ready 
to  take  advantage  of  every  wind  that  blows. 

5.  Take  them  into  the  church : talent  has  always  some- 
thing worth  hearing,  tact  is  sure  of  '’'abundance  of  hearers; 
talent  may  obtain  a living,  tact  will  make  one;  talent  gets  a 
good  name,  tact  a great  one;  talent  convinces,  tact  converts; 
talent  is  an  honor  to  the  profession,  tact  gains  honor  from  the 
profession. 

6.  Take  them  to  court:  talent  feels  its  weight,  tact  finds 
its  way;  talent  commands,  tact  is  obeyed;  talent  is  honored 
with  '’'approbation,  and  tact  is  blessed  by  '’'preferment.  Place 
them  in  the  senate : talent  has  the  ear  of  the  house,  but 
tact  wins  its  heart,  and  has  its  votes ; talent  is  fit  for  employ- 
ment, but  tact  is  fitted  for  it.  It  has  a knack  of  slipping 
into  place  with  a sweet  silence  and  giibness  of  movement,  as 
a billiard-ball  '’'insinuates  itself  into  the  pocket. 

7.  It  seems  to  know  every  thing,  without  learning  any 
thing.  It  has  served  an  '’'extemporary  apprenticeship;  it 
wants  no  drilling;  it  never  ranks  in  the  awkward  squad;  it 
has  no  left  hand,  no  deaf  ear,  no  blind  side.  It  puts  on  no 
look  of  wondrous  wisdom,  it  has  no  air  of  '’'profundity,  but 
plays  with  the  details  of  place  as  dexterously,  as  a well-taught 
hand  flourishes  over  the  keys  of  the  piano-forte.  It  has  all 
the  air  of  common-place,  and  all  the  force  and  power  of 
genius. 


340 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


CXXXV.— THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE:  AN  ALLEGORY. 

From  Dr.  Johnson. 

1.  “ Life,”  says  Seneca,  “is  a voyage,  in  the  progress  of 
which  we  are  perpetually  changing  our  scenes;  we  first  leave 
childhood  behind  us,  then  youth,  then  the  years  of '^'ripened 
manhood,  then  the  better  and  more  pleasing  part  of  old  age.” 

2.  The  perusal  of  this  passage  having  excited  in  me  a train 
of  reflections  on  the  state  of  man,  the  incessant  fluctuation 
of  his  wishes,  the  gradual  change  of  his  disposition  to  all  ex- 
ternal objects,  and  the  '^thoughtlessness  with  w^hich  he  floats 
along  the  stream  of  time,  I sank  into  a slumber  amid  my 
'•'meditations,  and,  on  a sudden,  found  my  ears  filled  with  a 
tumult  of  labor,  the  shouts  of  '•'alacrity,  the  shrieks  of  alarm, 
the  whistle  of  winds,  and  the  dash  of  waters. 

3.  My  '•'astonishment,  for  a time,  '•'repressed  my  '•'curiosity ; 
but  soon  recovering  myself,  so  far  as  to  inquire  whither  we 
were  going,  and  what  was  the  cause  of  such  clamor  and  con- 
fusion, I was  told  that  we  were  launching  out  into  the  ocean 
of  life,  that  we  had  already  passed  the  straits  of  infancy,  in 
which  multitudes  had  perished,  some  by  the  weakness  and 
'•'fragility  of  their  vessels,  and  more  by  the  folly,  '•'perverse- 
ness, or  '•'negligence  of  those  who  undertook  to  steer  them; 
and  that  we  were  now  on  the  main  sea,  abandoned  to  the 
winds  and  '•'billows,  without  any  other  means  of  security 
than  the  care  of  the  pilot,  whom  it  was  always  in  our  power 
to  choose  among  the  great  numbers  that  offered  their  direc- 
tion and  ■•'assistance. 

4.  I then  looked  around  wdth  anxious  eagerness,  and  first, 
turning  my  eyes  behind  me,  saw  a stream  flowing  through 
flowery  islands,  which  every  one  that  sailed  along  seemed  to 
behold  with  pleasure,  but  no  sooner  touched,  than  the  current, 
which,  though  not  noisy  or  '•'turbulent,  was  yet  '•'irresistible, 
bore  him  away.  Beyond  these  islands  all  was  darkness,  nor 
could  any  of  the  passengers  describe  the  shore  at  which  he 
first  embarked.  Before  me,  and  on  each  side,  was  an  ex- 
panse of  waters  '•'violently  agitated,  and  covered  with  so 
thick  a mist,  that  the  most  perspicacious  eye  could  see  but  a 
little  way.  It  appeared  to  be  full  of  rocks  and  whirlpools ; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


341 


for  many  sank  unexpectedly,  wliile  they  were  courting  the  gale 
with  full  sails,  and  insulting  those  whom  they  had  left  behind. 

5.  So  numerous,  indeed,  were  the  dangers,  and  so  thick  the 
darkness,  that  no  caution  could  confer  security.  Yet  there 
were  many,  who,  by  false  intelligence,  betrayed  their  fol- 
lowers into  whirlpools,  or,  by  violence,  pushed  those  whom 
they  found  in  their  way  against  the  rocks.  The  current  was 
■’'invariable  and  insurmountable.  But,  though  it  was  im- 
possible to  sail  against  it,  or  to  return  to  the  place  that  was 
once  passed,  yet  it  was  not  so  violent  as  to  allow  no  '’'opportuni- 
ties for  dexterity  or  courage,  since,  though  none  could  retreat 
from  danger,  yet  they  might  avoid  it  by  an  '’'oblique  direction. 

6.  It  was,  however,  not  very  common  to  steer  with  much 
care  or  prudence;  for,  by  some  universal  '’'infatuation,  every 
man  appeared  to  think  himself  safe,  though  he  saw  his  con- 
sorts every  moment  sinking  around  him ; and  no  sooner  had 
the  waves  closed  over  them,  than  their  fate  and  their  miscon- 
duct were  forgotten.  The  voyage  was  pursued  with  the  same 
jocund  confidence  ; every  man  '’'congratulated  himself  upon 
the  soundness  of  his  vessel,  and  believed  himself  able  to  stem 
the  whirlpool  in  which  his  friend  was  '’'swallowed,  or  glide 
over  the  rocks  on  which  he  was  dashed;  nor  was  it  often 
observed  that  the  sight  of  a wreck  made  any  man  change 
his  course;  if  he  turned  aside  for  a moment,  he  soon  forgot 
the  rudder,  and  left  himself  again  to  the  "’'disposal  of  chance. 

7.  This  negligence  did  not  proceed  from  indifference,  or 
from  weariness  of  their  condition ; for  not  one  of  those,  who 
thus  rushed  upon  destruction,  failed,  when  he  was  sinking, 
to  call  loudly  upon  his  ’'associates  for  that  help  which  could 
not  now  be  given  him;  and  many  spent  thefr  last  moments 
in  ■’'cautioning  others  against  the  folly,  by  which  they  were 
intercepted  in  the  midst  of  their  course.  Their  benevolence 
was  sometimes  praised,  but  their  admonitions  were  unregarded.' 

8.  In  the  midst  of  the  current  of  life  was  the  gulf  of  In- 
temperance, a dreadful  whirlpool,  interspersed  with  rocks,  of 
which  the  pointed  crags  were  concealed  under  water,  and  the 
tops  covered  with  herbage,  on  which  Ease  spread  '’'couches  of 
repose,  and  with  shades  where  Pleasure  warbled  the  song  of 
invitation.  Within  sight  of  these  rocks,  all  who  sail  on  the 
ocean  of  life  must  necessarily  rpass,  B-eason,  indeed,  was 

29 


342 


NEW  SIXTH  HEADER. 


always  at  hand,  to  steer  the  passengers  through  a narrow 
outlet  by  which  they  might  escape;  but  few  could,  by  her 
'•'entreaties,  or  '•'remonstrances,  be  induced  to  put  the  rudder 
into  her  hand,  without  stipulating  that  she  should  approach 
so  near  to  the  rocks  of  Pleasure,  that  they  might  solace 
themselves  with  a short  enjoyment  of  that  '•'delicious  region, 
after  which  they  always  determined  to  pursue  their  course 
without  any  other  deviation. 

9.  Peason  was  too  often  prevailed  upon  so  far,  by  these 
promises,  as  to  venture  her  charge  within  the  '•'eddy  of  the 
gulf  of  Intemperance,  where,  indeed,  the  '•'circumvolution 
was  weak,  but  yet  interrupted  the  course  of  the  vessel,  and 
drew  it,  by  insensible  rotations,  toward  the  center.  She  then 
repented  her  '•'temerity,  and,  with  all  her  force,  endeavored  to 
retreat;  but  the  draught  of  the  gulf  was  generally  too  strong 
to  be  overcome ; and  the  passenger,  having  danced  in  circles, 
with  a pleasing  and  giddy  '•'velocity,  was  at  last  overwhelmed 
and  lost. 

10.  As  I was  looking  upon  the  various  fate  of  the  multi- 
tude about  me,  I was  suddenly  alarmed  with  an  admonition 
from  some  unknown  power:  ‘‘Gaze  not  idly  upon  others, 
when  thou  thyself  art  sinking.  Whence  is  this  thoughtless 
■•'tranquillity,  when  thou  and  they  are  equally  '•'endangered?” 
I looked,  and  seeing  the  gulf  of  Intemperance  before  me, 
started  and  awoke. 


CXXXVI.— COLLOQUIAL  POWERS  OF  FRANKLIN. 

..  From  Wirt. 

William  Wirt,  the  author  of  the  following  extract,  was  born  in 
Maryland,  in  1772.  He  was  by  profession  a lawyer,  and  at  the  trial 
of  Aaron  Burr,  for  treason,  assisted  the  Attorney-general  of  the  United 
States.  He  was  the  author  of  the  celebrated  letters  entitled  The  Brit- 
ish Spy,  and  The  Old  Bachelor;  and  also  of  a Life  of  Patrick  Henry.  He 
died  in  1834. 

1.  Never  have  I known  such  a fireside  companion. 
Great  as  he  was  both  as  a '•'statesman  and  philosopher,  he 
never  shone  in  a light  more  winning,  than  when  he  was  seen 
in  a domestic  circle.  It  was  once  my  good  fortune  to  pass 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


343 


two  or  three  weeks  with  him,  at  the  house  of  a private  gen- 
tleman, in  the  back  part  of  Pennsylvania,  and  we  were  con- 
fined to  the  house  during  the  whole  of  that  time,  by  the 
+unintermitting  constancy  and  depth  of  the  snows.  But 
confinement  never  could  be  felt  where  Franklin  was  an 
inmate.  His  cheerfulness  and  his  colloquial  powers  spread 
around  him  a perpetual  spring. 

2.  When  I speak,  however,  of  his  '*'colloquial  powers,  I 
do  not  mean  to  awaken  any  notion  '^'analogous  to  that  which 
Boswell  has  given  us  of  Johnson.  The  conversation  of  the 
latter,  continually  reminds  one  of  the  “ pomp  and  circum- 
stance of  glorious  war.”  It  was,  indeed,  a '^'perpetual  con- 
test for  victory,  or  an  arbitrary  or  despotic  exaction  of 
homage  to  his  superior  talents.  It  was  strong,  acute,  prompt, 
splendid,  and  '^'vociferous ; as  loud,  stormy,  and  sublime,  as 
those  winds  which  he  represents  as  shaking  the  Hebrides,  and 
rocking  the  old  castle  which  frowned  on  the  dark-rolling  sea 
beneath. 

3.  But  one  gets  tired  of  storms,  however  sublime  they 
may  be,  and  longs  for  the  more  orderly  current  of  nature. 
Of  Franklin,  no  one  ever  became  tired.  There  was  no 
ambition  of  eloquence,  no  effort  to  shine  in  any  thing  which 
came  from  him.  There  was  nothing  which  made  any  demand 
upon  either  your  '^allegiance  or  your  admiration.  His  man- 
ner was  as  unaffected  as  infancy.  It  was  nature’s  self.  He 
talked  like  an  old  patriarch ; and  his  plainness  and  simplicity 
put  you  at  once  at  your  ease,  and  gave  you  the  full  and  free 
possession  and  use  of  your  faculties.  His  thoughts  were  of 
a character  to  shine  by  their  own  light,  without  any  adven- 
titious aid.  They  only  required  a '^'medium  of  vision  like 
his  pure  and  simple  style,  to  exhibit  to  the  highest  advan- 
tage their  native  '•'radiance  and  beauty. 

4.  His  cheerfulness  was  unremitting.  It  seemed  to  be  a-s 
much  the  effect  of  a '^'systematic  and  salutary  exercise  of  the 
mind,  as  of  its  superior  organization.  His  wit  was  of  the 
first  order.  It  did  not  show  itself  merely  in  occasional  '•'cor- 
uscations; but  without  any  effort  or  force  on  his  part,  it 
shed  a constant  stream  of  the  purest  light  over  the  whole 
of  his  discourse.  Whether  in  the  company  of  commons  or 
nobles,  he  was  always  the  same  plain  man  ; always  most  per- 


344 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


fectly  at  his  ease,  with  his  faculties  in  full  play,  and  the  full 
orbit  of  his  genius  forever  clear  and  unclouded. 

5.  And  then,  the  stores  of  his  mind  were  inexhaustible. 
He  had  commenced  life  with  an  attention  so  '^viffilant,  that 
nothing  had  escaped  his  observation;  and  a judgment  so 
solid,  that  every  incident  was  turned  to  advantage.  His 
youth  had  not  been  wasted  in  idleness,  nor  overcast  by 
intemperance.  He  had  been,  all  his  life,  a close  and  deep 
reader,  as  well  as  thinker ; and  by  the  force  of  his  own 
powers,  had  wrought  up  the  raw  materials  which  he  had 
gathered  from  books,  with  such  exquisite  skill  and  '^felicity, 
that  he  has  added  a hundred  fold  to  their  original  value,  and 
justly  made  them  his  own. 


CXXXVII.— A CONVERSATIONAL  PLEASANTRY. 

From  Franklin. 

Benjamin  Franklin  was  born  in  1706.  While  apprenticed  to  the  print- 
ing business,  he  found  opportunity  for  self-improvement,  and  began  to 
Write  anonymously  for  the  New  England  Courant,  pieces  which  were 
much  admired.  His  history  as  a statesman  and  philosopher  is  familiar 
to  every  American.  He  died  in  1790. 

. 1.  Some  wit  of  old — such  wits  of  old  there  were. 

Whose  hints  showed  meaning,  whose  '‘'allusions,  care, — 
By  one  brave  stroke,  to  mark  all  human  kind, 

Called  clear,  blank  paper,  every  infant  mind ; 

Where,  still,  as  opening  sense  her  '^'dictates  wrote, 

Fair  virtue  put  a seal,  or  vice  a blot. 

The  thought  was  happy,  "^pertinent,  and  true; 

Methinks  a genius  might  the  plan  pursue. 

2.  I,  (can  you  pardon  my  presumption  ?)  I, 

No  wit,  no  genius,  yet,  for  once,  will  try. 

Various  the  papers  various  wants  produce; 

The  wants  of  fashion,  elegance,  and  use. 

Men  .are  as  various;  and,  if  right  I scan, 

Iilach  sort  of  paper  represents  some  man. 

3.  Pray,  note  the  fop,  half  powder,  and  half  lace; 

Nice  as  a bandbox  were  his  d\velling-place ; 

He ’s  the  gilt-paper^  which,  apart  you  store. 

And  lock  from  vulgar  hands  in  the  ^scrutoir. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


345 


4.  Mechanics,  servants,  fanners,  and  so  forth, 

Are  copy-paper^  of  inferior  worth  ; 

Less  prized,  more  useful,  for  your  desk  "^decreed-, 

Free  to  all  pens,  and  prompt  at  every  need. 

5.  The  wretch,  Avhom  '’’avarice  bids  to  pinch  and  spare, 

Starve,  cheat,  and  '’’pilfer,  to  enrich  an  heir. 

Is  coarse  brown  paper ^ such  as  peddlers  choose 
To  wrap  up  ’’wares  which  better  men  will  use. 

6.  Take  next  the  miser’s  '’’contrast,  who  destroys 
Health,  fame,  and  fortune,  in  a round  of  joys. 

Will  any  paper  match  him?  Yes,  throughout, 

He’s  a true  sinking-paper^  past  all  doubt. 

7.  The  retail  politician’s  anxious  thought 

Deems  this  side  always  right,  and  that  stark  naught; 

He  foams  with  censure;  Avith  '’’applause,  he  raves; 

A dupe  to  rumors,  and  a tool  of  knaves ; 

He’ll  Avant  no  type,  his  weakness  to  proclaim, 

While  such  a thing  as  foolscap  has  a name. 

8.  The  hasty  gentleman,  Avhose  blood  runs  high. 

Who  picks  a quarrel,  if  you  step  '’’awry. 

Who  can ’t  a jest,  a hint,  or  look  endure  ; 

What  is  he?  What?  Touch-paper  to 

9.  What  are  our  poets,  take'  them  as  they  fall. 

Good,  bad,  rich,  poor,  much  read,  not  read  at  all  ? 

Them  and  their  Avorks,  in  the  same  class  you’ll  find; 

They  are  the  mere  waste-paper  of  mankind. 

10.  Observe  the  maiden,  innocently  SAveet; 

She’s  fair  white  paper  ^ an ’’’unsullied  sheet; 

On  which  the  happy  man,  whom  fate  ordains, 

May  Avrite  his  name,  and  take  her  for  his  pains. 

11.  One  instance  more,  and  only  one.  I’ll  bring; 

’Tis  the  great  man,  who  scorns  a little  thing; 

Whose  thoughts,  AA^hose  deeds,  whose  '’’maxims  are  his  own, 
Formed  on  the  feelings  of  his  heart  alone. 

True,  genuine,  royal-paper^  is  his  breast ; 

Of  all  the  kinds  most  precious,  purest,  best. 


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CXXXVIII.— INFLUENCE  OF  NATURAL  SCENERY. 

1.  Whatever  leads  the  mind  '^habitually  to  the  Author 
of  the  universe ; whatever  mingles  the  voice  of  nature  with 
the  '^'inspiration  of  the  Grospel ; whatever  teaches  us  to  see  in 
all  the  changes  of  the  world,  the  varied  goodness  of  Him^  in 
whom  “we  live,  and  move,  and  have  our  being,”  brings  us 
nearer  to  the  spirit  of  the  Savior  of  mankind.  But  it  is  not 
only  as  encouraging  a sincere  devotion^  that  these  reflections 
are  favorable  to  Christianity;  there  is  something,  moreover, 
'^peculiarly  allied  to  its  spirit  in  such  observations  of  external 
nature. 

2.  When  our  Savior  prepared  himself  for  his  temptation, 
his  agony,  and  death,  he  retired  to  the  wilderness  of  Judea, 
to  inhale,  we  may  venture  to  believe,  a holier  spirit  amid  its 
solitary  scenes,  and  to  approach  to  a nearer  '^communion  with 
his  Father,  amid  the  subliniest  of  his  works.  It  is  with 
similar  feelings,  and  to  worship  the  same  Father,  that  the 
Christian  is  permitted  to  enter  the  temple  of  nature,  and,  by 
the  spirit  of  his  religion,  there  is  a language  '^'infused  into  the 
objects  which  she  presents,  unknown  to  the  worshiper  of 
former  times.  To  all,  indeed,  the  same  objects  appear,  the 
same  sun  shines,  the  same  heavens  are  open ; but  to  the 
Christian  alone  it  is  permitted  to  know  the  Author  of  these 
things ; to  see  his  spirit  “ move  in  the  breeze,  and  blossom  in 
the  spring;”  and  to  read,  in  the  changes  that  occur  in  the 
material  world,  the  varied  '•'expression  of  eternal  love.  It  is 
from  the  influence  of  Christianity,  accordingly,  that  the  key 
has  been  given  to  the  signs  of  nature.  It  was  only  when  the 
spirit  of  God  moved  on  the  face  of  the  deep,  that  order  and 
beauty  were  seen  in  the  world. 

3.  It  is,  accordingly,  peculiarly  well  worthy  of  observation, 
that  the  heauty  of  nature^  as  felt  in  modern  times,  seems  to 
have  been  almost  unknown  to  the  writers  of  antiquity.  They 
described,  occasionally,  the  scenes  in  which  they  dwelt; 
but, — if  we  except  Yirgil,  whose  gentle  mind  seems  to  have 
anticipated,  in  this  instance,  the  influence  of  the  Grospel, — 
never  with  any  deep  feeling  of  their  beauty.  Then^  as  now, 
the  citadel  of  Athens  looked  upon  the  evening  sun,  and  her 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


347 


temples  flamed  in  his  setting  beam ; but  what  Athenian  writer 
ever  described  the  "’'matchless  glories  of  the  scene?  Then^ 
as  now^  the  silvery  clouds  of  the  j$]gean  sea  rolled  round  her 
■’'verdant  isles,  and  sported  in  the  azure  vault  of  heaven ; but; 
what  Grecian  poet  has  been  inspired  by  the  sight? 

4.  The  Italian  lakes  spread  their  waves  beneath  a cloudless 
sky,  and  all  that  is  lovely  in  nature  was  gathered  around 
them ; yet,  even  Eustace  tells  us,  that  a few  detached  lines  is 
all  that  is  left  in  regard  to  them  by  the  Roman  poets.  The 
Alps  themselves^ 

The  palaces  of  nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  "’"pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 

And  throned  eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  ■’"avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow,” 

even  these^  the  most  glorious  objects  which  the  eye  of  man  can 
behold,  were  regarded  by  the  ancients  with  sentiments  only  of 
dismay  or  horror ; as  a "’"barrier  from  hostile  nations,  or  as  the 
dwelling  of  barbarous  tribes.  The  torch  of  religion  had  not 
then  lightened  the  face  of  nature  ; they  knew  not  the  language 
which  she  spoke,  nor  felt  that  holy  spirit,  which,  to  the  Chris- 
tian, gives  the  sublimity  of  these  scenes. 

5.  There  is  something,  therefore,  in  religious  reflections  on 
the  objects  or  the  changes  of  nature,  which  is  peculiarly  fitting 
in  a Christian  teacher.  No  man  will  impress  them  on  his 
heart  without  becoming  happier  and  better,  without  feeling 
warmer  gratitude  for  the  "’"beneficence  of  nature,  and  deeper 
thankfulness  for  the  means  of  knowing  the  Author  of  this 
beneficence  which  "’"revelation  has  afforded.  “Behold  the 
lilies  of  the  field,”  says  our  Savior;  “ they  toil  not,  neither  do 
they  spin : yet,  verily  I say  unto  you,  that*  even  Solomon^  in 
all  his  glory,  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these.”  In  these 
words,  we  perceive  the  deep  sense  which  he  entertained  of  the 
beauty  even  of  the  minutest  works  of  nature.  If  the  admira- 
tion of  external  objects  is  not  directly  made  the  object  of  his 
"’"precepts,  it  is  not,  on  that  account,  the  less  allied  to  the 
spirit  of  religion;  it  springs  from  the  revelation  which  he  has 
made,  and  grows  with  the  spirit  which  he  inculcates. 

6.  The  cultivation  of  this  feeling,  we  may  suppose,  is 


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'^purposely  left  to  th/j  human  mind,  that  man  may  be  '^'induced 
to  follow  it  from  the  charms  which  '^'noyelty  '’'confers ; and  the 
sentiments  which  it  awakens  are  not  expressly  enjoined,  that 
they  may  be  enjoyed  as  the  '’'spontaneous  growth  of  our  own 
imagination.  While  they  seem,  however,  to  spring  up  unbid- 
den in  the  mind,  they  are,  in  fact,  produced  by  the  spirit  of 
religion ; and  those  who  imagine  that  they  are  not  the  fit  sub- 
ject of  Christian  instruction,  are  ignorant  of  the  secret  work- 
ings, and  finer  '’'analogies,  of  the  faith  which  they  profess. 


CXXXIX.— THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING. 

From  Mrs.  Hemans. 

1.  I COME,  I come!  ye  have  called  me  long; 

I come  o’er  the  mountains  with  light  and  song! 

Ye  may  trace  my  step  o’er  the  wakening  earth. 

By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet’s  birth. 

By  the  '’'primrose  stars  in  the  shadowy  grass. 

By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  I pass. 

2.  1 have  breathed  on  the  south,  and  the  chestnut  flowers! 
By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest  bowers, 

And  the  ancient  graves  and  the  fallen  '’"fanes, 

Are  veiled  with  wreaths  on  Italia’s  plains; 

But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 

To  spoak  of  the  ruin  or  of  the  tomb. 

3.  I have  looked  o’er  the  hills  of  the  stormy  north, 

And  the  "’'larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth, 

The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 

And  the  reindeer  bounds  o’er  the  '’'pastures  free, 

And  the  pine  has  a fringe  of  softer  green. 

And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  foot  hath  been. 

4.  I have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a glowing  sigh, 
And  called  out  each  voice  of  the  deep  blue  sky, 

From  the  night-bird’s  lay,  in  the  starry  time, 

In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime. 

To  "ihe  swan’s  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes. 

Where  the  dark  fir-branch  into  '’'verdure  breaks, 

6.  b’rom  the  streams  and  founts  1 have  loosed  the  chain, 
They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  ’’'silvery  main, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


349 


They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain  brows, 

They  are  flinging  +spray  o'er  the  forest  boughs, 

They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves. 

And  the  earth  ^resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves. 

6.  Come  forth,  O ye  children  of  gladness ! come ! 

Where  the  violets  lie,  may  be  now  your  home. 

Ye  of  the  rose-lip,  and  dew-bright  eye. 

And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me,  fly! 

With  the  "^lyre,  and  the  '•'wreath,  and  the  joyous  '•'lay, 

Come  forth  to  the  sunshine;  I may  not  stay. 

7.  Away  from  the  dwellings  of  care-worn  men. 

The  waters  are  sparkling  in  grove  and  glen; 

Away  from  the  chamber  and  silent  hearth. 

The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth; 

Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains, 

And  youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  '•'domains. 

8.  But  ye!  ye  are  changed  since  ye  met  me  last! 

There  is  something  bright  from  your  features  passed! 

There  is  that  come  over  your  brow  and  eye 

Which  speaks  of  a world,  where  the  flowers  must  die ! 

Ye  smile!  but  your  smile  hath  a '•'dimness  set; 

0 what  have  ye  looked  on,  since  last  we  met? 

9.  Ye  are  changed,  ye  are  changed!  and  I see  not  here 
All  whom  I saw  in  the  vanished  year: 

There  were  graceful  heads  with  their  ringlets  bright, 

Which  tossed  in  the  breeze,  with  a play  of  light; 

There  were  eyes,  in  whose  glistening  laughter  lay 
No  faint  '•'remembrance  of  dull  '•'decay. 

10.  There  were  steps  that  flew  o’er  the  '•'cowslip’s  head, 

As  if  for  a banquet  all  earth  were  spread; 

There  were  voices  that  rung  through  the  '•'sapphire  sky. 

And  had  not  a sound  of '•'mortality ! 

Are  they  gone?  Is  their  mirth  from  the  mountains  passed? 
Ye  have  looked  on  death,  since  ye  met  me  last! 

11.  I know  whence  the  shadow  comes  o’er  you  now. 

Ye  have  strewn  the  dust  on  the  sunny  brow! 

Ye  have  given  the  lovely  to  earth’s  '•'embrace, 

She  hath  taken  the  fairest  of  beauty’s  race; 

With  their  laughing  eyes,  and  their  '•'festal  crown. 

They  have  gone  from  among  you,  in  silence,  down  I 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


12  They  are  gone  from  among  you,  the  young  and  fair: 

Ye  have  lost  the  '^'gleam  of  their  shining  hair ! 

But  1 know  of  a land,  where  there  falls  no  blight, 

I shall  find  them  there,  with  their  eyes  of  light ! 

Where  Death,  ’mid  the  bloom  of  the  morn  may  dwell, 

I tarry  no  longer;  farewell,  farewell! 

13.  The  summer  is  coming,  on  soft  winds  borne ; 

Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn! 

For  me,  I depart  to  a brighter  shore ; 

Ye  are  marked  by  care,  ye  arc  mine  no  more ; 

I go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell. 

And  the  flowers  are  not  Death’s;  Fare  ye  well,  farewell/ 


CXL.— SUMMER  EVENING. 

From  Bryant. 

1.  The  summer  day  has  closed;  the  sun  is  set: 

Well  have  they  done  their  office,  those  bright  hours. 
The  latest  of  whose  train  goes  softly  out 
In  the  red  west.  The  green  blade  of  the  ground 
Has  risen,  and  herds  have  cropped  it;  the  young  twig 
Has  spread  its  ^plaited  ^tissues  to  the  sun; 

Flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  waste  have  blown 
And  withered;  seeds  have  fallen  upon  the  soil 
From  bursting  '*'cells,  and,  in  their  graves,  await 
Their  '‘'resurrection. 

2.  Insects  from  the  pools 
Have  filled  the  air  awhile  with  humming  wings. 

That  now  are  stilled  forever;  painted  moths 
Have  wandered  the  blue  sky,  and  died  again; 

The  mother-bird  hath  broken  for  her  brood 
Their  prison  shell,  or  shoved  them  from  their  nest. 
Plumed  for  their  earliest  flight. 

3.  In  bright  alcoves, 

In  woodland  cottages  with  barky  walls. 

In  '‘'noisome  cells  of  the  tumultuous  town. 

Mothers  have  clasped  with  joy  the  new-born  babe. 
Graves  by  the  lonely  forest,  by  the  shore 
Of  rivers  and  of  ocean,  by  the  ways 
Of  the  '♦'thronged  city,  have  been  hollowed  out. 

And  filled,  and  closed.  This  day  hath  parted  friends, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


351 


That  ne’er  before  were  parted;  it  hath  knit 
New  friendships;  it  hath  seen  the  maiden  '’'plight 
Her  faith,  and  trust  her  peace  to  him  who  long 
Hath  w'ooed ; and  it  hath  heard,  from  lips  which  late 
Were  eloquent  of  love,  the  first  harsh  word. 

That  told  the  wedded  one  her  peace  was  flown. 

4.  Farewell  to  the  sweet  sunshine  ! One  glad  day 
Is  added  now  to  childhood’s  merry  days, 

And  one  calm  day  to  those  of  quiet  age ; 

Still  the  ■’'fleet  hours  run  on;  and,  as  I lean, 

Amid  the  thickening  darkness,  lamps  are  lit, 

By  those  who  watch  the  dead,  and  those  who  twine 
Flowers  for  the  bride.  The  mother  from  the  eyes 
Of  her  sick  infant  shades  the  painful  light. 

And  sadly  listens  to  his  quick-drawn  breath. 


CXLI.— THE  CRUSADER  AND  THE  SARACEN. 

From  Walter  Scott.  * 

Caftan  ; a kind  of  loose  vest. 

1.  As  the  Knight  of  the  Leopard  fixed  his  eyes  attentively 
on  the  distant  '’'cluster  of  palm-trees  which  arose  beside  the 
well  assigned  for  his  midday  station,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 
some  object  was  moving  among  them.  The  distant  form 
separated  itself  from  the  trees  which  partly  hid  its  motions, 
and  advanced  toward  the  knight  with  a speed  which  soon 
showed  a mounted  horseman,  whom  his  '’'turban,  long  spear, 
and  green  caftan  floating  in  the  wind,  on  his  nearer  approach, 
showed  to  be  a '’'Saracen  '’'cavalier.  “In  the  desert,”  saith  an 
Eastern  proverb,  “no  man  meets  a friend.”  The  crusader 
was  totally  indifierent  whether  the  infidel,  who  now  ap- 
proached on  his  gallant  barb,  as  if  borne  on  the  wings  of  an 
eagle,  came  as  friend  or  foe:  perhaps,  as  a vowed  champion 
of  the  Cross,  he  might  rather  have  preferred  the  latter.  He 
disengaged  his  lance  from  his  saddle,  seized  it  with  the  right 
hand,  placed  it  in  rest,  with  its  point  half  elevated,  gathered 
up  the  reins  in  the  left,  waked  his  horse’s  '’'mettle  with  the 
spur,  and  prepared  to  encounter  the  stranger  with  the  calm 
self-confidence  belonging  to  the  victor  in  many  contests. 


352 


NEW  SIXTH  KEADil^K. 


2.  The  Saracen  came  on  at  the  speedy  gallop  of  an  Arab 
horseman,  managing  his  steed  more  by  his  limbs  and  the 
'’'inflection  of  his  body,  than  by  any  use  of  the  reins,  which 
hung  loose  in  his  left  hand ; so  that  he  was  enabled  to  wield 
the  light,  round  buckler  of  the  skin  of  the  rhinoceros,  orna- 
mented with  silver  loops,  which  he  wore  on  his  arm,  swinging 
it,  as  if  he  meant  to  opppose  its  slender  circle  to  the  '’'formid- 
able thrust  of  the  western  lance. 

3.  His  own  long  spear  was  not  '’'couched,  or  leveled  like 
that  of  his  ’'antagonist,  but  grasped  by  the  middle  with  his 
right  hand,  and  '’'brandished  at  arm’s  length,  above  his  head. 
As  the  cavalier  approached  his  enemy,  at  full  '’'career,  he 
seemed  to  expect  that  the  Knight  of  the  Leopard  should  put 
his  horse  to  the  gallop,  to  encounter  him.  But  the  Christian 
knight,  well  acquainted  with  the  customs  of  eastern  warriors, 
did  not  mean  to  exhaust  his  good  horse  by  any  unnecessary 
exertion  ; and,  on  the  contrary,  made  a dead  halt,  confident  that 
if  the  enemy  advanced  to  the  actual  shock,  his  own  weight 
and  that  of  his  powerful  charger  would  give  him  sufiicient 
advantage,  without  the  '’'momentum  gained  by  rapid  motion. 

4.  Equally  sensible  and  '’'apprehensive  of  such  a probable 
result,  the  Saracen  cavalier,  when  he  had  approached  toward 
the  Christian  within  twice  the  length  of  his  lance,  wheeled 
his  steed  to  the  left,  with  inimitable  '’'dexterity,  and  rode 
twice  around  his  antagonist,  who,  turning  without  quitting 
his  ground,  and  presenting  his  front  constantly  to  his  en- 
emy, '’'frustrated  his  attempts  to  attack  him  on  an  unguarded 
point;  so  that  the  Saracen,  wheeling  his  horse,  was  fain  to 
retreat  to  the  distance  of  a hundred  yards.  A second  time, 
like  a hawk  attacking  a heron,  the  heathen  renew^ed  the 
charge,  and,  a second  time,  was  fain  to  retreat  without  com- 
i ig  to  a close  struggle. 

5.  A third  time,  he  approached  in  the  same  manner,  when 
the  Christian  knight,  desirous  to  terminate  this  '’'illusory 
warfare,  in  which  he  might,  at  length,  have  been  worn  out 
by  the  activity  of  his  foeman,  suddenly  seized  the  '’'mace 
which  hung  at  his  saddle-bow,  and  with  a strong  hand  and 
unerring  aim,  hurled  it  against  the  head  of  his  assailant. 
The  Saracen  was  just  aware  of  the  formidable  '’'missile,  in 
time  to  interpose  his  light  buckler  betwixt  the  mace  and  his 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


353 


head ; but  the  violence  of  the  blow  forced  the  buckler  down 
on  his  turban,  and,  though  that  defense  also  contributed  to 
deaden  its  violence,  the  Saracen  was  beaten  from  his  horse. 

6.  Ere  the  Christian  could  avail  himself  of  this  mishap, 
his  nimble  foeman  sprung  from  the  ground,  and,  calling  on 
his  steed,  which  instantly  returned  to  his  side,  he  leaped  into 
his  seat,  and  regained  all  the  advantage  of  which  the  Knight 
of  the  Leopard  had  hoped  to  deprive  him.  But  the  latter 
had,  in  the  mean  while,  recovered  his  '^'mace,  and  the  eastern 
cavalier,  who  remembered  the  strength  and  "^dexterity  with 
which  his  antagonist  had  aimed  it,  seemed  to  keep  cautiously 
out  of  reach  of  that  weapon,  of  which  he  had  so  lately  felt 
the  force;  while  he  showed  his  purpose  of  waging  a distant 
warfare  with  missile  weapons  of  his  own.  Planting  his  long 
spear  in  the  sand  at  a distance  from  the  scene  of  combat,  he 
strung,  with  great  address,  a short  bow  which  he  carried  at 
his  back,  and,  putting  his  horse  to  the  gallop,  once  more 
described  two  or  three  circles,  of  a wider  extent  than  for- 
merly, in  the  course  of  which  he  discharged  six  arrows  with 
such  unerring  skill,  that  the  goodness  of  the  knight’s  armor 
alone  saved  him  from  being  wounded  in  as  many  places. 

7.  The  seventh  shaft. apparently  found  a less  perfect  part 
of  the  '^'harness,  and  the  Christian  dropped  heavily  from  his 
horse.  But  what  was  the  surprise  of  the  Saracen,  when,  dis- 
mounting to  examine  the  condition  of  his  '’'prostrate  enemy, 
he  found  himself  suddenly  within  the.  grasp  of  the  European, 
who  had  had  recourse  to  this  '’'artifice  to  bring  his  enemy 
within  his  reach  ! Even  in  this  deadly  ’’'grapple,  the  Saracen 
was  saved  by  his  '’'agility  and  presence  of  mind.  He  unloosed 
the  sword-belt,  in  which  the  Knight  of  the  Leopard  had  fixed 
his  hold,  and  thus  '’'eluding  the  fatal  grasp,  mounted  his  horse, 
which  seemed  to  watch  his  motions  with  the  intelligence  of  a 
human  being,  and  again  rode  off. 

8.  But  in  the  last  encounter,  the  Saracen  had  lost  his  sword 
and  his  quiver  of  arrows,  both  of  which  were  attached  to  the 
girdle,  which  he  was  obliged  to  abandon.  He  had  also  lost 
his  turban  in  the  struggle.  These  disadvantages  seemed  to 
incline  the  Moslem  to  a truce.  He  approached  the  Christian 
with  right  hand  extended,  but  no  longer  in  a '’'menacing  atti- 
tude. “ There  is  truce  betwixt  our  nations,”  he  said  ; “ where- 


354 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


fore  should  there  be  war  betwixt  thee  and  me  ? Let  there  be 
peace  betwixt  us.”  ‘‘I  am  well  contented,”  answered  he  of 
the  Leopard;  “but  what  security  dost  thou  offer  that  thou 
wilt  observe  the  truce?”  “The  word  of  a follower  of  the 
Prophet  was  never  broken,”  answered  the  '*'emir.  “ It  is  thou, 
brave  Nazarene,  from  whom  I should  demand  security,  did  I 
mot  know  that  treason  seldom  dwells  with  courage.”  The 
"^^crusader  felt  that  the  confidence  of  the  Moslem  made  him 
ashamed  of  his  own  doubts.  “ I pledge  thee  on  the  cross  of 
my  sword,”  he  said,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  weapon  as  he 
spoke,  “I  will  be  a true  companion  to  thee,  Saracen,  while 
our  fortune  wills  that  we  remain  in  company.” 

9.  “By  Mohammed,  Prophet  of  Allah,”  replied  his  late 
foeman,  “there  is  not  treachery  in  my  heart  toward  thee. 
And  now,  "^wend  we  to  yonder  fountain,  for  the  hour  of  rest 
is  at  hand,  and  the  stream  had  hardly  touched  my  lip,  when  I 
was  called  to  battle  by  thy  approach.”  The  Knight  of  the 
Leopard  yielded  a ready  and  '^'courteous  assent;  and  the  late 
foes,  without  an  angry  look  or  gesture  of  doubt,  rode,  side 
by  side,  to  the  little  cluster  of  palm-trees. 


CXLII,— THE  RAVEN 
From  Poe. 

Edgar  A.  Poe,  an  American  poet,  was  born  at  Baltimore  in  1811.  He 
graduated  at  Jefferson  University  with  the  highest  honors.  His  prose 
writings  are  quite  numerous.  His  poems  are  few,  but  some  of  them 
evince  high  poetic  talent.  He  died  in  1849. 

1.  Once  upon  a midnight  dreary,  while  I pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a '•'quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore, 
While  I nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door : 
“’Tis  some  visitor,”  I muttered,  “tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more.” 

2.  Ah,  distinctly  I remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I wished  the  morrow;  vainly  I had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  '•'surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore— 

Nameless  here  for  evermore. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


355 


3.  And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me,  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors,  never  felt  before; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I stood  repeating, 

“ ’T  is  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door; 

This  it  is  and  nothing  more.” 

4.  Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ; hesitating  then  no  longer, 
“Sir,”  said  1,  “or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I implore; 

But  the  fact  is  I was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping^ 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
That  I scarce  was  sure  1 heard  you.  ’ ’ — Here  I opened  wide  the  door ; 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

5.  Deep  into  that  darkness  '•'peering,  long  I stood  there  wondering, 

fearing,  [before ; 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token. 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word, 
“ Lenore  ?” 

This  I whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word 
“ Lenore  ! ” — 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

6.  Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I heard  a tapping,  something  louder  than  before. 
“Surely,”  said  I,  “surely,  that  is  something  at  my  window 

"^lattice ; 

Let  me  see  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  '•'explore — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a moment,  and  this  mystery  explore; 

’T  is  the  wind,  and  nothing  more.” 

7.  Open  here  I flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a '•'flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  '•'yore: 
Not  the  least  '•'obeisance  made  he;  not  a minute  stopped  or 

stayed  he, 

But,  with  '•'mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a '•'bust  of  Pallas*  just  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

8.  Then  this  '•'ebony  bird  '•'beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling. 

By  the  grave  and  stern  '•'decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
“Though  thy  '•'crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,”  I said,  “art 

sure  no  craven. 


356 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven,  wandering  from  the  nightly 
shore,  [shore ! ” 

Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night’s  Plutonian 
■t-Quoth  the  Raven,  “Nevermore.” 

9.  Much  1 marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  ^relevancy  bore; 

For  we  can  not  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blest  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — ■ 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  '•'sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  “Nevermore.” 

10.  But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour; 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered,  not  a feather  then  he  fluttered, 
Till  I scarcely  more  than  muttered,  “ Other  friends  have  flown 

before — 

On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown  before.” 
Then  the  bird  said,  “Nevermore.” 

11.  Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
“Doubtless,”  said  I,  “what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store. 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  unmerciful  '•'Dis- 
aster 

Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  song  one  burden  bore. 
Till  the  '•'dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  ‘Never — nevermore.’  ” 

12.  But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling. 
Straight  I wheeled  a cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird,  and  bust, 

and  door; 

Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  '•'ominous  bird  of '•'yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  '•'ghastly,  '•'gaunt,  and  ominous  bird 
of  yore 

Meant,  in.  croaking  “Nevermore.” 

1.3.  This  I sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom’s  '•'core; 
This  and  more  I sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion’s  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  '•'gloated  o’er 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o’er 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore ! 

14.  Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  un 
seen  censer 

Swung  by  Seraphim,  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  flour. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


357 


“Wretch,”  I cried,  “thy  God  hath  lent  thee,  by  these  angels 
he  hath  sent  thee 

Respite — respite  and  '’'nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff,  O quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore  !” 
Quoth  the  Raven,  “Nevermore.” 

15.  “Prophet!”  said  I,  “thing  of  evil!  prophet  still,  if  bird  or 

devil  I 

Whether  Tempter  sent,  or  ^vhether  tempest  tossed  thee  here 
ashore, 

Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted. 

On  this  home  by  horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I implore — 
Is  there,  is  there  balm  in  Gilead?  tell  me,  tell  me,  I implore!  ’’ 
Quoth  the  Raven,  “Nevermore.” 

16.  “ Prophet ! ” said  I,  “ thing  of  evil,  prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we  both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a sainted  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a rare  and  '’'radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore.” 

Quoth  the  Raven,  “Nevermore.” 

17.  “Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend,”  I shrieked, 

upstarting ; 

“Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest,  and  the  night's  Plutonian 
shore ! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath 
spoken ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! quit  the  bust  above  my  door ' 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off 
my  door ! ” 

Quoth  the  Raven,  “Nevermore.” 

18.  And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  ■’'pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a demon’s  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light,  o’er  him  streaming,  throws  his  shadow  on 

the  floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow,  that  lies  floating  on  the 
floor. 

Shall  be  lifted  nevermore. 


30 


358 


NEW  SIXTH  HEADER. 


CXLIIL— DARKNESS. 

From  Byron. 

1.  I HAD  a dream,  which  was  not  all  a dream. 

The  bright  sun  was  '•'extinguished,  and  the  stars 
Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 

'•'Rayless  and  pathless,  and  the  icj  earth 
Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air; 
Morn  came,  and  went,  and  came,  and  brought  no  day 
And  men  forgot  their  passions  in  the  dread 

Of  this  their  desolation ; and  all  hearts 
Were  chilled  into  a selfish  prayer  for  light. 

2.  And  they  did  live  by  watch-fires ; and  the  thrones, 
The  palaces  of  crowned  kings,  the  huts, 

The  '•'habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 

Were  burnt  for  '•'beacons;  cities  were  '•'consumed. 
And  men  were  gathered  round  their  blazing  homes 
To  look  once  more  into  each  other’s  face; 

Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 
Of  the  "t volcanoes  and  their  mountain  torch. 

3.  A fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contained; 

Forests  were  set  on  fire ; but,  hour  by  hour. 

They  fell  and  faded,  and  the  crackling  trunks 
Extinguished  with  a crash;  and  all  was  black. 

The  brows  of  men,  by  the  '•'despairing  light. 

Wore  an  unearthly  '•'aspect,  as  by  fits 

The  flashes  fell  upon  them;  some  lay  down. 

And  hid  their  eyes,  and  wept;  and  some  did  rest 
Their  chins  upon  their  clinchM  hands,  and  smiled*, 
And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 
Their  funeral  piles  with  '•'fuel,  and  looked  up 
With  mad  '•'disquietude  on  the  dull  sky. 

The  '•'pall  of  a past  world;  and  then  again, 

With  curses  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust. 

And  gnashed  their  teeth,  and  howled. 

4.  The  wild  birds  shrieked. 
And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground. 

And  flap  their  useless  wings  ; the  wildest  brutes 
Came,  tame  and  tremulous ; and  vipers  crawled 
And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 

Hissing,  but  stingless:  they  w’ere  slain  for  food; 

And  War,  which  for  a moment  was  no  more, 

Did  '•'glut  himself  again;  a meal  was  bought 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


359 


With  blood,  and  each  sat  sullenly  apart, 

Gorging  himself  in  gloom  ; no  love  was  left ; 

All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was  death, 

Immediate  and  "^inglorious;  and  the  pang 

Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails;  men 

Died,  and  their  bones  were  '*'tombless  as  their  flesh. 

5.  The  '•'meager  by  the  meager  were  devoured; 

Even  dogs  assailed  their  masters,  all  save  one. 

And  he  was  faithful  to  a '•'corse,  and  kept 

The  birds,  and  beasts,  and  famished  men  at  bay. 

Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  dropping  dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws;  himself  sought  out  no  food, 

But  with  a '•'piteous  and  perpetual  moan. 

And  a quick,  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
Which  answered  not  with  a '•'caress,  he  died. 

6.  The  crowd  was  famished  by  degrees;  but  two 
Of  an  '•'enormous  city  did  survive. 

And  they  were  enemies ; they  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place. 

Where  had  been  heaped  a mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage;  they  raked  up, 

And,  shivering,  scraped,  with  their  cold,  skeleton  hands, 
The  feeble  ashes,  and  they  made  a flame 
Which  was  a '•'mockery;  then,  they  lifted  up 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  other’s  aspects;  saw,  and  shrieked,  and  died: 
Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 
Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 
Famine  had  written  Fiend. 


The  world  was  void; 

The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a lump. 

Seasonless,  herbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless; 

A lump  of  death,  a '•'chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean,  all  stood  still. 

And  nothing  stirred  within  their  silent  depths ; 

Ships,  sailorless,  lay  rotting  on  the  sea,  * 

And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal ; as  they  dropped, 
They  slept  on  the  '•'abyss  without  a '‘'surge. 

The  waves  were  dead ; the  tides  were  in  their  grave ; 
The  moon,  their  mistress,  had  expired  before ; 

The  winds  were  withered  in  the  '•'stagnant  air. 

And  the  clouds  perished.  Darkness  had  no  need 
Of  aid  from  them.  She  was  the  '•'universe. 


360 


NEW  SIXTH  READEE. 


CXLTV.— PRINCE  HENRY  AND  FALSTAFF. 

From  Shakspeare. 

Prince  Henry  and  Poins,  in  a hack  room^  in  a tavern. 

Enter  Falstaff,  GtADSHILL,  Bardolph,  and  Peto. 

Poins.  Welcome,  Jack.  Where  hast  thou  been  ? 

Falstaff.  A plague  of  all  cowards,  I say,  and  a vengeance 
too!  marry,  and  amen!  Give  me  a cup  of '’'sack,  boy.  Ere  I 
lead  this  life  long,  I ’ll  sew  nether  stocks,  and  mend  them,  and 
foot  them,  too.  A plague  of  all  cowards  ! Give  me  a cup  of 
sack,  rogue.  Is  there  no  virtue  '’'extant?  \^He  drinks^  and  then 
continues.~\  You  rogue,  here ’s  lime  in  this  sack  : there  is 
nothing  but  roguery  to  be  found  in  villainous  man  : yet  a 
coward  is  worse  than  a cup  of  sack  with  lime  in  it.  A villain- 
ous coward!  Go  thy  ways,  old  Jack;  die  when  thou  wilt:  if 
manhood,  good  manhood,  be  not  forgot  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth,  then  am  I a shotten  herring.  There  live  not  three  good 
men  unhanged,  in  England ; and  one  of  them  is  fat  and  grows 
old;  a bad  world,  I say  ! I would  I were  a weaver;  I could 
sing  psalms,  or  any  thing.  A plague  of  all  cowards,  I say 
still. 

Prince  Henry.  How  now,  '’'wool-sack?  What  mutter  you? 

Fal.  Thou  art  a king’s  son!  Now,  if  I do  not  beat  thee 
out  of  thy  kingdom  with  a dagger  of  lath,  and  drive  all  thy 
subjects  afore  thee  like  a flock  of  wild  geese,  I ’ll  never  wear 
hair  on  my  face  more.  You,  Prince  of  Wales! 

P.  Henry.  Why,  you  base-born  dog  ! What ’s  the  matter? 

Fal.  Are  you  not  a coward?  Answer  me  to  that;  and 
Poins  there  ? [thee. 

Poins.  Ye  fat  '’'braggart,  an  ye  call  me  coward,  I ’ll  stab 

Fal.  I call  thee  coward  ? I ’ll  see  thee  '’'gibbeted,  ere  I 
call  thee  coward  : but  I would  give  a thousand  pounds  I could 
run  as  fast  as  thou  canst.  You  are  straight  enough  in  the 
shoulders,  you  care  not  who  sees  your  back : call  you  that 
backing  of  your  friends?  A plague  upon  such  backing! 
Give  me  them  that  will  face  me.  Give  me  a cup  of  sack.  I 
am  a rogue,  if  I have  drunk  to-day. 

P.  Henry.  0 villain ! thy  lips  are  scarce  wiped,  since  thou 
drank’st  last. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


361 


Fal.  All ’s  one  for  that.  A plague  of  all  cowards,  still 
say  I.  drinks. 

P,  Henry.  What’s  the  matter? 

Fal.  What ’s  the  matter ! There  be  four  of  us  here  have 
ta’en  a thousand  pounds  this  morning. 

P.  Henry.  Where  is  it,  Jack?  where  is  it? 

Fal.  Where  is  it?  Taken  from  us  it  is;  a hundred  upon 
poor  four  of  us. 

P.  Henry.  What!  a hundred,  man? 

Fal.  I am  a rogue,  if  I were  not  at  half-sword  with  a dozen 
of  them,  for  two  hours  together.  I have  ’scaped  by  miracle. 
I am  eight  times  thrust  through  the  '•'doublet ; four,  through 
the  hose ; my  buckler  cut  through  and  through ; my  sword 
hacked  like  a hand-saw ; look  here  I \_shows  his  sword.~\  I 
never  dealt  better  since  I was  a man ; all  would  not  do.  A 
plague  of  all  cowards  1 Let  them  speak ; \_pointing  to  GtADS- 
HILL,  Bardolph,  and  Peto,]  if  they  speak  more  or  less  than 
truth,  they  are  villains  and  the  sons  of  darkness. 

P.  Henry.  Speak,  sirs ; how  was  it  ? 

Gadshill.  We  four,  set  upon  some  dozen — 

Fal.  Sixteen,  at  least,  my  lord. 

Gad.  And  bound  them. 

Peto.  No,  no,  they  were  not  bound. 

Fal.  You  rogue,  they  were  bound,  every  man  of  them;  or 
I am  a Jew,  else — an  Ebrew  Jew.  [upon  us — 

Gad.  As  we  were  sharing,  some  six  or  seven  fresh  men  set 

Fal.  And  unbound  the  rest;  and  then  come  in  the  other. 

P.  Henry.  What!  fought  ye  with  them  all? 

Fal.  All?  I know  not  what  ye  call  all;  but  if  I fought 
not  with  fifty  of  them,  I am  a bunch  of  radish:  if  there  were 
not  two  or  three  and  fifty  upon  poor  old  Jack,  then  I am  no 
two-legged  creature. 

Poins.  Pray  heaven,  you  have  not  murdered  some  of  them. 

Fal.  Nay,  that’s  past  praying  for;  for  I have  '•'peppered 
two  of  them;  two  I am  sure  I have  paid ; two  rogues  in  '•'buck- 
ram suits.  I tell  thee  what,  Ilal,  if  I tell  thee  a lie,  spit  in 
my  face,  and  call  me  a horse.  Thou  knowest  my  old  ward; 
[//e  draws  his  sword^  and  stands  as  if  about  to  fight^~\  here  I 
lay,  and  thus  I bore  my  point.  Four  rogues  in  buckram  \(^t 
drive  at  me — 


362 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


P.  Henry.  What!  four?  Thou  saidst  but  two  even  now. 

Fal.  Four,  Hal;  I told  thee  four. 

Poins.  Ay,  ay,  he  said  four. 

Fal.  These  four  came  all  afront,  and  mainly  thrust  at  me. 
I made  no  more  ado,  but  took  all  their  seven  points  on  my 
■^'target,  thus. 

P.  Henry.  Seven?  Why,  there  were  but  four,  even  now. 

FoX.  In  buckram? 

Pains.  Ay,  four,  in  buckram  suits. 

Fal.  Seven,  by  these  hilts,  or  I am  a villain  else. 

P.  Henry.  Prithee,  let  him  alone;  we  shall  have  more 
^anon. 

Fal.  Dost  thou  hear  me,  Hal? 

P.  Henry.  Ay,  and  mark  thee,  too.  Jack. 

Fal.  Do  so,  for  it  is  worth  the  listening  to.  These  nine 
men  in  buckram,  that  I told  thee  of — 

P.  Henry.  So,  two  more  already. 

Fal.  Their  points  being  broken,  began  to  give  me  ground  ; 
but  I followed  me  close,  came  in  foot  and  hand ; and,  with  a 
thought,  seven  of  the  eleven  I paid. 

P.  Henry.  0,  monstrous  1 eleven  buckram  men  grown  out 
of  two ! 

Fal.  But  three  knaves,  in  Kendal  green,  came  at  my 
back,  and  let  drive  at  me;  for  it  was  so  dark,  Hal,  that 
thou  couldst  not  see  thy  hand. 

P.  Henry.  These  lies  are  like  the  father  of  them;  gross 
as  a mountain,  open,  ‘'palpable.  Why,  thou  clay-brained, 
knotty-pated  fool;  thou  greasy  tallow-keech 

Fal.  What!  Art  thou  mad?  Art  thou  mad?  Is  not 
the  truth  the  truth  ? 

P.  Henry.  Why,  how  couldst  thou  know  these  men  in 
Kendal  green,  when  it  was  so  dark  thou  couldst  not  see  thy 
hand?  Come,  tell  us  your  reason;  what  sayest  thou  to  this? 

Poins.  Come,  your  reason.  Jack,  your  reason. 

Fal.  What,  upon  compulsion?  No,  were  I at  the  strap- 
pado, or  all  the  racks  in  the  world,  I would  not  tell  you  on 
■‘  compulsion.  Grive  you  a reason  on  compulsion  ! If  reasons 
were  as  plentiful  as  blackberries,  I would  give  no  man  a reason 
on  compulsion. 

P.  Henry.  I ’ll  no  longer  be  guilty  of  this  sin : this  ‘•'san- 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


363 


guine  coward,  this  horse-back-breaker,  this  huge  hill  of 
flesh 

Fal,  Away ! you  '^starveling,  you  eel-skin,  you  dried 
neat’s  tongue,  you  stock-fish ! 0 for  breath  to  utter  what 

is  like  thee ! — you  tailor’s  yard,  you  sheath,  you  bow-case, 
you 

P,  Henry.  Well,  breathe  awhile,  and  then  to  it  again;  and 
when  thou  hast  tired  thyself  in  base  cojnparisons  hear  me 
speak  but  this. 

Poms.  Mark,  Jack. 

jP.  Henry.  We  two  saw  you  four  set  on  four;  you  bound 
them,  and  were  masters  of  their  wealth.  Mark  now,  how 
plain  a tale  shall  put  you  down.  Then  did  we  two,  set  on 
you  four ; and  with  a word,  outfaced  you  from  your  prize,  and 
have  it;  yea,  and  can  show  it  to  you,  here  in  the  house:  and, 
Falstaff,  you  carried  yourself  away  as  nimbly,  with  as  quick 
'♦'dexterity,  and  roared  for  mercy,  and  still  ran  and  roared,  as 
ever  I heard  a calf.  What  a slave  art  thou,  to  hack  thy  sword 
as  thou  hast  done,  and  then  say  it  was  in  fight ! What  trick, 
what  '♦'device,  what  starting-hole,  canst  thou  now  find  out  to 
hide  thee  from  this  open  and  apparent  shame? 

Poins.  Come,  let ’s  hear.  Jack.  What  trick  hast  thou 
now? 

Fal.  Why,  I knew  ye  as  well  as  he  that  made  ye.  Why, 
hear  ye,  my  masters:  was  it  for  me  to  kill  the  '♦'heir-apparent? 
Should  I turn  upon  the  true  prince?  Why,  thou  knowest  I 
am  as  valiant  as  Hercules ; but  beware  '♦'instinct ; the  lion 
will  not  touch  the  true  prince ; '♦'instinct  is  a great  matter ; I 
was  a coward  on  instinct.  I shall  think  the  better  of  myself 
and  thee  during  my  life  ; I for  a valiant  lion,  and  thou  for  a 
true  prince.  But.  lads,  I am  glad  you  have  the  money. 
Hostess,  clap  to  the  doors.  Watch  to-night,  pray  to-mor- 
row. Gallants,  lads,  boys,  hearts  of  gold;  all  the  titles  of 
good-fellowship  come  to  you!  What  shall  we  be  merry? 
Shall  we  have  a play  '♦'extempore  ? 

P.  Henry.  Content;  and  the  argument  shall  be  thy  run- 
ning away. 

Fal,  Ah ! no  more  of  that,  Hal,  an  thou  lovest  me. 


364 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


CXLV.— THE  QUARREL  OF  BRUTUS  AND  CASSIUS. 
From  Shakspeare. 

Cassius.  That  you  have  wronged  me  doth  appear  in  this : 
You  have  condemned  and  '*'noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardians; 

Wherein  my  letters,  praying  on  his  side, 

Because  I knew  the  man,  were  slighted  off. 

Brutus.  You  wronged  yourself  to  write  in  such  a case. 
Cas.  In  such  a time  as  this,  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offense  should  bear  its  ^comment 
Bru.  Yet  let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemned  to  have  an  '•'itching  palm , 

To  sell  and  '•'mart  your  offices  for  gold 
To  undeservers. 

Cas.  I an  itching  palm  ! 

You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speak  this. 

Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Bru.  The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this  ^corruption, 

And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  its  head. 

Cas.  Chastisement ! 

Bru.  Remember  March,  the  Ides  of  March  remember  I 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice’  sake? 

What  villain  touched  his  body,  that  did  stab, 

And  not  for  justice?  What,  shall  one  of  us. 

That  struck  the  foremost  man  in  all  this  world 
But  for  supporting  robbers  ; shall  we  now 
'•'Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes. 

And  sell  the  mighty  space  of  our  large  honors, 

For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus  ? 

I had  rather  be  a dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 

Than  such  a Roman. 

Cas.  Brutus,  bay  not  me . 

I ’ll  not  endure  it:  you  forget  yourself. 

To  hedge  me  in;  1 am  a soldier,  1, 

Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 

Bru.  Go  to;  you  arc  not,  Cassius. 

Cas.  I am. 

Bru.  1 say  you  are  not. 

Cas.  Urge  me  no  more,  I shall  forget  myself; 

Have  mind  upon  your  health,  tempt  me  no  further, 

Bru.  Away,  slight  man ! 

Cas.  Is ’t  possible  ? 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


365 


Bru.  Hear  me,  for  1 will  speak. 

Must  I give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  '’'choler  ? 

Shall  I be  frighted  when  a madman  stares  ? 

Cas.  O ye  gods ! ye  gods ! must  I endure  all  this  ? 

Bru.  All  this?  Ay,  more;  fret  till  your  proud  heart  break; 
Go,  show  your  slaves  how  'tcholeric  you  are. 

And  make  your  '•'bondmen  tremble.  Must  I '•'budge  ? 

Must  I observe  you  ? Must  1 stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  '•'testy  humor  ? By  the  gods. 

You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen. 

Though  it  do  split  you ; for,  from  this  day  forth, 

1 ’ll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea  for  my  laughter, 

When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.  Is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Bru.  You  say  you  are  a better  soldier: 

Let  it  appear  so ; make  your  '•'vaunting  true. 

And  it  shall  please  me  well ; for  mine  own  part 
I shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cas.  You  wrong  me  every  way;  you  wrong  me,  Brutus; 

I said,  an  elder  soldier,  not  a better  : 

Bid  I say  ‘ better  ’ ? 

Bru.  If  you  did,  I care  not. 

Cas.  When  Caesar  lived,  he  durst  not  so  have  moved  me. 
Bru.  Peace,  peace ! you  durst  not  so  have  tempted  him. 

Cas.  I durst  not ! 

Bru.  No. 

Cas.  What?  Durst  not  tempt  him  ? 

Bru.  For  your  life,  you  durst  not. 

Cas.  Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love ; 

I may  do  that  I shall  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.  You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 

There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats; 

For  I am  armed  so  strong  in  honesty 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind. 

Which  I respect  not.  I did  send  to  you 

For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me; 

For  I can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means: 

Ye  gods!  I had  rather  coin  my  heart. 

And  drop  my  blood  for  '•'drachmas,  than  to  wring 
From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 
By  any  '•'indirection.  I did  send 
To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions. 

Which  you  denied  me : was  that  done  like  Cassius  ? 

Should  I have  answered  Caius  Cassius  so? 

When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetcuo, 


366 


NEW  SIXTH  HEADER. 


To  lock  such  rascal  '^'counters  from  his  friends, 

Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunderbolts; 

Dash  him  to  pieces! 

Cas.  I denied  you  not. 

Bru.  Y ou  did. 

Cas  I did  not:  he  was  but  a fool 
That  brought  my  answer  back.  Brutus  hath  rived  my  hear? 
A friend  should  bear  his  friend’s  '•'infirmities, 

But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Brn.  I do  not,  till  you  practice  them  on  me. 

Cas.  You  love  me  not. 

Bru.  I do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cas.  A friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.  A flatterer’s  would  not,  though  they  do  appear 
As  huge  as  high  '•'Olympus. 

Cas.  Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come, 

Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 

For  Cassius  is  aweary  of  the  world: 

Hated  by  one  he  loves;  braved  by  his  brother; 

Checked  like  a bondman ; all  his  faults  observed, 

Set  in  a note-book,  learned,  and  '•'conned  by  rote, 

To  cast  into  my  teeth.  0,  I could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes!  There  is  my  dagger, 

And  here  my  naked  breast;  within,  a heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus’  mine,  richer  than  gold  : 

If  that  thou  be’st  a Roman,  take  it  forth ; 

I,  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart: 

Strike,  as  thou  didst  at  Caesar;  for,  I know. 

When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lovedst  him  better 
Than  ever  thou  lovedst  Cassius. 

Bru.  Sheathe  your  dagger: 

Be  angry  when  you  will,  it  shall  have  ’scope; 

Do  Avhat  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 

O (lassius,  you  are  yoked  with  a lamb 
That  carries  anger  as  the  flint  bears  fire: 

^^dH),  much  '•'enforced,  shows  a hasty  spark. 

And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cas.  Hath  Cassius  lived 
To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 

When  grief  or  blood  ill-tempered  vexech  him? 

Bru.  When  I spoke  that,  I was  ill-tempered,  too. 

Cas.  Do  you  confess  so  much?  Give  me  your  hand. 

Bru.  And  my  heart,  too. 

Cas.  0 Brutus! 

Bru.  What’s  the  matter? 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


367 


Cas.  Have  you  not  love  enough  to  bear  with  me, 
When  that  rash  humor  which  my  mother  gave  me, 
Makes  me  forgetful? 

Bru.  Yes,  Cassius;  and,  from  henceforth, 

When  you  are  over-earnest  with  your  Brutus, 

He'll  think  your  mother  "tchides,  and  leave  you  so. 


CXLVL— THE  QUACK. 
Scene — The  Inn. 


Enter  Hostess  followed  by  Lampedo,  a Quack  Doctor. 


Hostess.  Nay,  nay;  another  fortnight. 

Lampedo.  It  can  't  be. 

The  man’s  as  well  as  I am:  have  some  mercy! 

He  hath  been  here  almost  three  weeks  already. 

Host.  Well,  then,  a week. 

Lamp.  We  may  detain  him  a week.  \_Enter  Balthazar,  the 
patient.,  from,  behind.,  in  his  night-gown.,  with  a drawn  swordf\ 

You  talk  now  like  a reasonable  "thostess, 

That  sometimes  has  a reckoning  with  her  '•'conscience. 

Host.  He  still  believes  he  has  an  inward  bruise. 

Lamp.  I would  to  heaven  he  had!  or  that  he'd  slipped 
His  shoulder-blade,  or  broke  a leg  or  two, 

(Not  that  I bear  his  person  any  malice,) 

Or  'tluxed  an  arm,  or  even  sprained  his  ankle! 

Host.  Ay,  broken  any  thing  except  his  neck. 

Ijamp.  However,  for  a week  I’ll  manage  him; 

Though  he  had  the  constitution  of  a horse. 


A '•'farrier  shall  prescribe  for  him. 

Balthazar.  A farrier!  \_Aside.~\  * 

Lamp.  To-morroAV,  Ave  '•'phlebotomize  again; 

Next  day,  my  new-invented,  patent  draught; 

Then,  I have  some  pills  prepared ; 

On  Thursday,  Ave  throAV  in  the  bark;  on  Friday 

Balth.  \Coming  forivard.~\  Well,  sir,  on  Friday — what,  on 
Friday  ? Come,  proceed. 

Lamp.  Discovered ! 

Host  Mercy,  noble  sir! 

Lamp.  W e crave  your  mercy ! J 
Balth.  On  your  knees?  'tis  Avell! 

Pray!  for  your  time  is  short. 


They  fall  on  their  knees. 


368 


SIXTH  READER. 


Host.  Nay,  do  not  kill  us. 

Balth.  You  have  been  tried,  condemned,  and  only  wait 
For  execution.  Which  shall  I begin  with  ? 

Lamp.  The  lady,  by  all  means,  sir. 

Balth.  Come,  prepare.  \_To  the  hostess.~\ 

Host  Have  pity  on  the  weakness  of  my  sex ! 

Balth.  Tell  me,  thou  quaking  mountain  of  "tgross  flesh, 
Tell  me,  and  in  a breath,  how  many  poisons — 

If  you  attempt  it — [ To  Lampedo,  who  is  making  o^] 
you  have  cooked  up  for  me? 

Host.  None,  as  I hope  for  mercy ! 

Balth.  Is  not  thy  wine  a poison? 

Host  No,  indeed,  sir  ; 

’Tis  not,  I own,  of  the  first  quality; 

But — 

Balth.  What  ? 

Host  I always  give  short  measure,  sir, 

And  ease  my  conscience  that  way. 

Balth.  Ease  your  conscience ! 

I T1  ease  your  conscience  for  you. 

Host.  Mercy,  sir ! 

Balth.  Rise,  if  thou  canst,  and  hear  me. 

Host.  Your  commands,  sir? 

Balth.  If,  in  five  minutes,  all  things  are  prepared 
For  my  departure,  you  may  yet  survive. 

Host.  It  shall  be  done  in  less. 

Balth.  Away,  thou  lump-fish!  \_Exit  hostess.'] 

Lamp.  So  ! now  comes  my  turn  I ’t  is  all  over  with  me ! 
There  ’s  dagger,  rope,  and  'tratsbane  in  his  look  I 
Balth.  And  now,  thou  sketch  and  outline  of  a man ! 

Thou  thing  that  hast  no  shadow  in  the  sun  1 
Thou  eel  in  a ‘‘'consumption,  eldest  born 
Of  Death  and  Famine!  thou  'tanatomy 
Of  a starved  ‘♦'pilchard  ! 

Lamp.  I do  confess  my  leanness.  I am  spare. 

And,  therefore,  spare  me. 

Balth.  Why!  wouldst  thou  not  have  made  me 
A thoroughfare,  for  thy  whole  shop  to  pass  through  ? 

Lamp.  Man,  you  know,  must  live. 

Balth.  Yes:  he  must  die,  too. 

Lamp.  For  my  patients’  sake — 

Balth.  I’ll  send  you  to  the  ‘♦'major  part  of  them. 

The  window,  sir,  is  open ; come,  prepare. 

Lamp.  Pray,  consider ; 

I may  hurt  some  one  in  the  street 


ECLECTIC  SERTEa. 


369 


Balth.  Why,  then, 

I ’ll  rattle  thee  to  pieces  in  a dicc-Lox, 

Or  grind  thee  in  a coffee-mill  to  powder, 

For  thou  must  sup  with  Pluto : so,  make  ready ; 

While  I,  with  this  good  small-sword  for  a lancet. 

Let  thy  starved  spirit  out,  (for  blood  thou  hast  none,) 

And  nail  thee  to  the  wall,  where  thou  shalt  look 
Like  a dried  beetle  with  a pin  stuck  through  him. 

Lamp.  Consider  my  poor  wife. 

Balth.  Thy  wife ! 

Lamp.  My  wife,  sir. 

Balth.  Hast  thou  dared  think  of  matrimony,  too? 

Thou  shadow  of  a man,  and  base  as  lean  ! 

Lamp.  O spare  me  for  her  sake ! 

I have  a wife,  and  three  angelic  babes. 

Who,  by  those  looks,  are  well  nigh  fatherless. 

Balth.  Well,  well!  your  wife  and  children  shall  plead 
for  you. 

Come,  come;  the  pills!  Avhere  are  the  pills?  produce  them. 
Lamp.  Here  is  the  box. 

Balth.  Were  it  '^'Pandora’s,  and  each  single  pill 
Had  ten  diseases  in  it,  you  should  take  them. 

Lamp.  What,  all  ? 

Balth.  Ay,  all ; and  quickly,  too.  Come,  sir,  begin — that’s 
well ! Another. 

Lamp.  One  ’s  a dose. 

Balth.  Proceed,  sir. 

Lamp.  What  will  become  of  me  ? 

Let  me  go  home,  and  set  my  shop  to  rights, 

And,  like  immortal  Caesar,  die  with  decency. 

Balth.  Away ! and  thank  thy  lucky  star  I have  not 
Brayed  thee  in  thine  own  mortar,  or  exposed  thee 
For  a large  specimen  of  the  lizard  genus. 

Lamp.  Would  I were  one ! for  they  can  feed  on  air. 
Balth.  Home,  sir,  and  be  more  honest.  \_Exit'\ 

Lamp.  If  I am  not, 
i ’ll  be  more  wise,  at  least 


lExiQ 


370 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


' CXLVII.— IMPEACHMENT  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS. 

Warren  Hastings  was  a Governor  of  the  British  possessions  in  India, 
and  Was  impeached  for  ^maladministration. 

Edmund  Burke,  who,  on  the  part  of  the  House  of  Commons,  conducted 
the  prosecution  of  Warren  Hastings,  was  born  in  1730.  As  an  orator, 
politician,  and  author,  he  stood  high  among  his  cotemporaries.  He 
died  in  1797. 

1.  The  place  in  which  the  '^impeachment  of  Warren  Hast- 
ings was  conducted,  was  worthy  of  such  a trial.  It  was  the 
great  hall  of  William  Rufus;  the  hall,  which  had  resounded 
with  '^acclamations,  at  the  inauguration  of  thirty  kings;  the 
hall,  which  had  witnessed  the  just  sentence  of  Bacon,  and  the 
just '^absolution  of  Somers;  the  hall,  where  the  eloquence  of 
Stafford  had  for  a moment  awed  and  melted  a victorious  party 
inflamed  with  just  resentment;  the  hall,  where  Charles  had 
■‘'confronted  the  High  Court  of  Justice,  with  the  placid  cour- 
age which  half  redeemed  his  fame. 

2.  Neither  military  nor  civil  pomp  was  wanting.  The 
avenues  were  lined  with  grenadiers.  The  streets  were  kept 
clear  by  cavalry.  The  peers,  robed  in  gold  and  ermine,  were 
marshaled  by  heralds.  The  judges,  in  their  '‘'vestm^ents  of 
state,  attended  to  give  advice  on  points  of  law.  The  long- 
galleries  were  crowded  by  such  an  audience  as  has  rarely 
excited  the  fears  or  emulation  of  an  orator.  There,  were 
gathered  together,  from  all  points  of  a great,  free,  enlightened, 
and  prosperous  realm,  grace  and  female  loveliness,  wit  and 
learning,  the  representatives  of  every  science  and  every  art. 

3.  There,  were  seated  around  the  queen,  the  fair-haired, 
young  daughters  of  the  house  of  Brunswick.  There,  the 
■♦'embassadors  of  great  kings  and  commonwealths  gazed  with 
admiration  on  a spectacle  which  no  other  country  in  the  world 
could  present.  There,  Siddons,*  in  the  pride  of  her  majestic 
beauty,  looked  with  emotion  on  a scene  '♦'surpassing  all  the 
imitations  of  the  stage.  There,  Gibbon,  the  historian  of  the 
Roman  Empire,  thought  of  the  days  when  Cicero,  pleaded  the 
cause  of  Sicily  against  Yerres;  and  when,  before  a senate 
which  had  some  show  of  freedom,  Tacitus  thundered  against 


A celebrated  actress. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


371 


the  oppressor  of  Africa;  and  there  too.  were  seen,  side  by 
side,  the  greatest  painter  and  the  greatest  scholar  of  the  age; 
for  the  spectacle  had  '^'allured  Reynolds  from  his  easel,  and 
Parr  from  his  study. 

4.  The  "^sergeants  made '‘'proclamation.  Hastings  advanced 
to  the  bar,  and  bent  his  knee.  The  culprit  was  indeed  not 
unworthy  of  that  great  presence.  He  had  ruled  an  exten- 
sive and  populous  country ; had  made  laws  and  treaties ; had 
sent  forth  armies ; had  set  up,  and  pulled  down  princes ; and 
in  his  high  place  he  had  so  borne  himself,  that  all  had  feared 
him,  that  most  had  loved  him,  and  that  hatred  itself  could 
deny  him  no  title  to  glory,  except  virtue.  A person,  small 
and  "^emaciated,  yet  deriving  dignity  from  a carriage  which, 
while  it  indicated  '‘'deference  to  the  court,  indicated,  also, 
habitual  self-possession  and  self-respect;  a high  and  intcPoct- 
ual  forehead;  a brow,  pensive,  but  not  gloomy;  a moulli  of 
'‘'inflexible  decision  ; a face,  pale  and  worn,  but  on  which  a 
great  and  well-balanced  mind  was  legibly  written : such 
formed  the  aspect  with  which  the  great  proconsul  presented 
himself  to  his  judges. 

5.  The  charges,  and  the  answers  of  Hastings,  were  first 
read.  This  '‘'ceremony  occupied  two  whole  days.  On  the 
third,  Burke  rose.  Four  sittings  of  the  court  were  occupied 
by  his  opening  speech,  which  was  intended  to  be  a general 
introduction  to  all  the  charges.  With  an  ‘'exuberance  of 
thought  and  a splendor  of  diction,  which  more  than  satisfied 
the  highly  raised  expectations  of  the  audience,  he  described 
the  character  and  institutions  of  the  natives  of  India;  re- 
counted the  circumstances  in  which  the  Asiatic  Empire  of 
Britain  had  originated ; and  set  forth  the  constitution  of  the 
Company  and  of  the  English  Presidencies. 

6.  Having  thus  attempted  to  communicate  to  his  hearers 
an  idea  of  eastern  society,  as  vivid  as  that  which  existed  in 
his  own  mind,  he  proceeded  to  '‘'arraign  the  administration  of 
Hastings,  as  systematically  conducted  in  defiance  of  morality 
and  public  law.  The  energy  and  pathos  of  the  great  orator 
■‘'extorted  expressions  of  unwonted  admiration  from  all;  and, 
for  a moment,  seemed  to  pierce  even  the  resolute  heart  of  the 
defendant.  The  ladies  in  the  galleries,  unaccustomed  to  such 
displays  of  eloquence,  excited  by  the  solemnity  of  the  occa- 


372 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


siou,  aod  perhaps  not  unwilling  to  display  their  taste  and 
sensibility,  were  in  a state  of  incontrollable  emotion.  Hand> 
kerchiefs  were  pulled  out ; smelling-bottles  were  handed 
round;  '•'hysterical  sobs  and  screams  were  heard,  and  some 
were  even  carried  out  in  fits. 

7.  At  length,  the  orator  concluded.  Raising  his  voice,  till 
the  old  arches  of  Irish  oak  resounded — “ Therefore,’’  said  he, 
“hath  it  in  all  confidence  been  ordered  by  the  Commons  of 
Grreat  Britain,  that  I '•'impeach  Warren  Hastings  of  high 
crimes  and  misdemeanors.  I impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the 
Commons  House  of  Parliament,  whose  trust  he  has  betrayed. 
I impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  English  nation,  whose 
ancient  honor  he  has  sullied.  I impeach  him  in  the  name  of 
the  people  of  India,  whose  rights  he  has  trodden  under  foot, 
and  whose  country  he  has  turned  into  a desert.  Lastly,  in 
the  name  of  human  nature  itself,  in  the  name  of  both  sexes, 
in  the  name  of  every  age,  in  the  name  of  every  rank,  I im- 
peach the  common  enemy  and  oppressor  of  all.” 


CXLVIII.— THE  MURDER  OF  PRINCE  ARTHUR. 

From  Shakspeare. 

King  John.  Come  hither,  Hubert.  O,  my  gentle  Hubert, 
We  owe  thee  much!  within  this  wall  of  fiesh 
There  is  a soul  counts  thee  her  '•'creditor, 

And  with  advantage  means  to  pay  thy  love: 

And,  my  good  friend,  thy  '•'voluntary  oath 
Lives  in  this  bosom,  dearly  cherished. 

Give  me  thy  hand.  I had  a thing  to  say, 

But  I will  fit  it  with  some  better  time. 

In  truth,  good  Hubert,  I am  almost  ashamed 
To  say  what  great  respect  I have  for  thee. 

Hyhert.  I am  much  bounden  to  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  Good  friend,  thou  hast  no  cause  to  say  so  yet, 
But  thou  shall  have ; and,  creep  time,  ne’er  so  slow. 

Yet  it  shall  come  for  me  to  do  thee  good. 

I had  a thing  to  say, — but  let  it  go: 

The  sun  is  in  the  heaven,  and  the  proud  day. 

Attended  with  the  pleasures  of  the  world. 

Is  all  too  wanton,  and  too  full  of  '•'gauds. 

To  give  me  '’“audience.  If  the  midnight  bell 
Did.  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  mouth, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


373 


Sound  on  into  the  drowsy  race  of  night, 

If  this  same  were  a churchyard  where  we  stand, 
And  thou  possessed  with  a thousand  wrongs : 

Or  if  that  surly  spirit,  melancholy. 

Had  baked  thy  blood  and  made  it  heavy — thick; 
(Which,  else,  runs  tickling  up  and  down  the  veins, 
Making  that  idiot,  laughter,  keep  men’s  eyes. 

And  strain  their  cheeks  to  idle  merriment, 

A passion  hateful  to  my  purposes:) 

Or  if  that  thou  couldst  see  me  w'ithout  eyes. 

Hear  me  without  thine  ears,  and  make  reply 
Without  a tongue,  using  '•'conceit  alone. 

Without  eyes,  ears,  and  harmful  sound  of  words; 
Then,  in  "^despite  of  '•'brooded,  watchful  day, 

I would  into  this  bosom  pour  my  thoughts : 

But,  ah,  I will  not!  Yet  I love  thee  well; 

And,  by  my  '*'troth,  I think  thou  lovest  me  well. 

Huh.  So  well,  that  what  you  bid  me  undertake. 
Though  that  my  death  were  '•'adjunct  to  my  act, 

I’d  do  it. 

K.  John.  Ho  I not  know  thou  wouldst  ? 

Good  Hubert,  Hubert,  throw  thine  eye 

On  yon  young  boy.  I ’ll  tell  thee  what,  my  friend. 

He  is  a very  serpent  in  my  way ; 

And,  wheresoe’er  this  foot  of  mine  doth  tread. 

He  lies  before  me.  Dost  thou  understand  me? 
Thou  art  his  keeper. 

Huh.  And  I’ll  keep  him  so. 

That  he  shall  not  offend  your  majesty. 

K.  John.  Death. 

Huh.  My  lord  ? 

K.  John.  A grave. 

Huh.  He  shall  not  live. 

K.  John.  Enough. 

I could  be  merry  now.  Hubert,  I love  thee; 

Well,  1 ’ll  not  say  what  I intend  for  thee: 
Remember. 


CXLIX.— THE  REMORSE  OF  KING  JOHN. 

From  Shakspeare. 

Huhert.  My  lord,  they  say  five  moons  were  seen  to-night' 
Four  fixed;  and  the  fifth  did  whirl  about 
The  other  four  in  wonderous  motion. 


374 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


King  John.  Five  moons  ? 

Huh.  Old  men  and  '•'beldams  in  the  streets 
Do  prophesy  upon  it  dangerously : 

Young  Arthur’s  death  is  common  in  their  mouths; 

And  when  they  talk  of  him,  they  shake  their  heads. 

And  whisper  one  another  in  the  ear ; 

And  he  that  speaks  doth  gripe  the  hearer’s  wrist, 

While  he  that  hears  makes  fearful  action, 

With  wrinkled  brows,  with  nods,  with  rolling  eyes. 

I saw  a smith  stand  with  his  hammer,  thus. 

The  while  his  iron  did  on  the  anvil  cool, 

With  open  mouth  swallowing  a tailor’s  news; 

Who,  with  his  shears  and  measure  in  his  hand, 

Standing  on  slippers,  which  his  nimble  haste 
Had  falsely  thrust  upon  contrary  feet, 

Told  of  many  thousand  warlike  French, 

That  were  '•'embattled  and  ranked  in  Kent ; 

Another  lean,  unwashed  '•'artificer 

Cuts  off  his  tale  and  talks  of  Arthur’s  death. 

K John.  Why  seek’st  thou  to  possess  me  with  these  fears? 
Why  urgest  thou  so  oft  young  Arthur’s  death  ? 

Thy  hand  hath  murdered  him : I had  a mighty  cause 
To  wish  him  dead,  but  thou  hadst  none  to  kill  him. 

Hub.  Had  none,  my  lord?  Why,  did  you  not  provoke  me? 
K John.  It  is  the  curse  of  kings  to  be  attended 
By  slaves  that  take  their  humors  for  a '•'warrant 
To  break  within  the  bloody  house  of  life. 

And  on  the  winking  of  authority. 

To  understand  a law,  to  know  the  meaning 
Of  dangerous  majesty,  when,  perchance,  it  frowns 
More  upon  humor  than  advised  '•'respect. 

Huh.  Here  is  your  hand  and  seal  for  what  I did. 

K.  John.  0,  when  the  last  account  ’twixt  heaven  and  earth 
Is  to  be  made,  then  shall  this  hand  and  seal 
Witness  against  us  to  damnation  ! 

How  oft  the  sight  of  means  to  do  ill  deeds 
Makes  ill  deeds  done  ! Hadst  not  thou  been  by, 

A fellow  by  the  hand  of  nature  marked, 

■•'Quoted  and  signed  to  do  a deed  of  shame. 

This  murder  had  not  come  into  my  mind: 

But,  taking  note  of  thy  '•'abhorrM  '•'aspect. 

Finding  thee  fit  for  bloody  '•'villainy. 

Apt,  '•'liable  to  be  employed  in  danger, 

1 faintly  broke  with  thee  of  Arthur’s  death; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


375 


And  thou,  to  be  endeared  to  a king, 

Made  it  no  conscience  to  destroy  a prince. 

Hub.  My  Lord, — 

K.  John.  Hadst  thou  but  shook  thy  head,  or  made  a pause, 
When  I spoke  darkly  of  what  I purposed; 

Or  turned  an  eye  of  doubt  upon  my  face, 

And  bid  me  tell  my  tale  in  express  words, 

Deep  shame  had  struck  me  dumb,  made  me  break  off, 

And  those  thy  fears  might  have  wrought  fears  in  me*. 

But  thou  didst  understand  me  by  my  signs. 

And  didst  in  signs  again  '•'parley  with  sin; 

Yea,  without  stop,  didst  let  thy  heart  consent. 

And,  consequently,  thy  rude  hand  to  act 

The  deed,  which  both  our  tongues  held  vile  to  name. 

Out  of  my  sight,  and  never  see  me  more ! 

My  nobles  leave  me;  and  my  state  is  braved. 

Even  at  my  gates,  with  ranks  of  foreign  powers; 

Nay,  in  the  body  of  this  fleshly  land. 

This  kingdom,  this  '•'confine  of  blood  and  breath, 

Hostility  and  civil  tumult  reign 

Between  my  conscience  and  my  cousin  s death. 

Huh.  Arm  you  against  your  other  enemies, 

I T1  make  a peace  between  your  soul  and  you. 

Young  Arthur  is  alive:  this  hand  of  mine 
Is  yet  a maiden  and  an  innocent  hand. 

Not  painted  with  the  crimson  spots  of  blood. 

Within  this  bosom  never  entered  yet 

The  dreadful  notion  of  a murderous  thought; 

And  you  have  slandered  nature  in  my  form. 

Which,  howsoever  rude  '•'exteriorly. 

Is  yet  the  cover  of  a fairer  mind 
Than  to  be  butcher  of  an  innocent  child. 

K.  John.  Doth  Arthur  live?  haste  thee  to  the  peers, 

Throw  this  report  on  their  LincensM  rage. 

And  make  them  tame  to  their  obedience ! 

Forgive  the  '•'comment  that  my  passion  made 
Upon  thy  feature;  for  my  rage  was  blind. 

And  foul,  '•'imaginary  eyes  of  blood 
Presented  thee  more  '•'hideous  than  thou  art. 

O,  answer  not,  but  to  my  closet  bring 
The  angry  lords,  with  all  expedient  haste ; 

I '•'conjure^ thee  but  slowly;  run  more  fast. 


376 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


CL.— THE  WILL. 

Characters. — SwiPES,  a brewer;  Currie,  a saddler;  Frank 
Millington,  and  Squire  Drawl. 

Swipes.  A sober  occasion,  this,  brother  Currie.  Who  would 
have  thought  the  old  lady  was  so  near  her  end? 

Currie.  Ah!  we  must  all  die,  brother  Swipes;  and  those 
who  live  the  longest,  outlive  the  most. 

Swipes.  True,  true;  but  since  we  must  die  and  leave  our 
earthly  possessions,  it  is  well  that  the  law  takes  such  good 
care  of  us.  Had  the  old  lady  her  senses  when  she  departed? 

Cur.  Perfectly,  perfectly.  Squire  Drawl  told  me  she  read 
every  word  of  the  will  aloud,  and  never  signed  her  name  better. 

Swipes.  Had  you  any  hint  from  the  Squire,  what '^disposi- 
tion she  made  of  her  property  ? 

Cur.  Not  a whisper;  the  Squire  is  as  close  as  an  under- 
ground tomb : but  one  of  the  witnesses  hinted  to  me,  that  she 
had  cut  off  her  "^graceless  nephew,  Frank,  without  a shilling. 

Swipes.  Has  she,  good  soul,  has  she?  You  know  I come 
in,  then,  in  right  of  my  wife. 

Cur.  And  I in  my  own  right;  and  this  is  no  doubt  the  rea- 
son why  we  have  been  called  to  hear  the  reading  of  the  will. 
Squire  Drawl  knows  how  things  should  be  done,  though  he 
is  as  air-tight  as  one  of  your  beer-barrels.  But  here  comes 
the  young  '^reprobate.  He  must  be  present,  as  a matter  of 
course,  you  know.  \_Enter  Frank  Millington.]  Your 
servant,  young  gentleman.  So  your  benefactress  has  left 
you  at  last. 

Swipes.  It  is  a painful  thing  to  part  with  old  and  good 
friends,  Mr.  Millington. 

Frank.  It  is  so,  sir ; but  I could  bear  her  loss,  better,  had 
I not  so  often  been  ungrateful  for  her  kindness.  She  was  my 
only  friend,  and  I knew  not  her  value. 

Cur.  It  is  too  late  to  repent.  Master  Millington.  You  will 
now  have  a chance  to  earn  your  own  bread. 

Swipes.  Ay,  ay,  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  as  better  peo- 
ple are  obliged,  to.  You  would  make  a fine  brewer’s  boy,  if 
you  were  not  too  old. 

Cur.  Ay,  or  a saddler’s '•'lackey,  if  held  with  a tight  rein. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


377 


Frank.  Gentlemen,  your  remarks  imply  that  my  aunt  has 
treated  me  as  I deserved.  I am  above  your  insults,  and  only 
hope  you  will  bear  your  fortune  as  modestly^  as  I shall  mine 
mhmissively . I shall  retire.  \^Going : he  meets  Squire 
Drawl.] 

Squire.  Stop,  stop,  young  man.  We  must  have  your 
presence.  Good  morning,  gentlemen;  you  are  early  on  the 
ground. 

Cur.  I hope  the  Squire  is  well  to-day. 

Squire.  Pretty  comfortable,  for  an  invalid. 

Swipes.  I trust  the  damp  air  has  not  affected  your  lungs 
again. 

Squire.  No,  I believe  not.  But  since  the  heirs  at  law  are 
all  '^'convened,  I shall  now  proceed  to  open  the  last  will  and 
testament  of  your  deceased  relative,  according  to  law. 

Swipes.  [ While  the  Squire  is  breaking  the  seal.^  It  is  a 
trying  thing,  to  leave  all  one’s  possessions.  Squire,  in  this 
manner. 

Cur.  It  really  makes  me  feel  melancholy,  when  I look 
around  and  see  every  thing  but  the  venerable  owner  of  these 
goods.  Well  did  the  preacher  say,  ^‘all  is  vanity.” 

Squire.  Please  to  be  seated,  gentlemen.  \^He  puts  on  his 
spectacles^  and  begins  to  read  slowly. '^Imprimis;  whereas 
my  nephew,  Francis  Millington,  by  his  disobedience  and 
ungrateful  conduct,  has  shown  himself  unworthy  of  my 
bounty,  and  incapable  of  managing  my  large  estate,  I do 
hereby  give  and  ^bequeath  all  my  houses,  farms,  stocks, 
bonds,  moneys,  and  property,  both  personal  and  real,  to  my 
dear  cousins,  Samuel  Swipes,  of  Malt-Street,  brewer,  and 
Christopher  Currie,  of  Fly-Court,  saddler.”  [TTie  Squire 
takes  off  his  spectacles.^  to  wipe  them.^ 

Swipes.  Generous  creature ! Kind  soul ! I always  loved  her. 

Cur.  She  was  good,  she  was  kind ; — and,  brother  Swipes, 
when  we  divide,  I think  I ’ll  take  the  mansion-house. 

Swipes.  Not  so  fast,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Currie.  My  wife 
has  long  had  her  eye  upon  that,  and  must  have  it. 

Cur.  There  will  be  two  words  to  that  bargain,  Mr.  Swipes. 
And,  besides,  I ought  to  have  the  first  choice.  Did  I not 
lend  her  a new  chaise,  every  time  she  wished  to  ride?  And 
who  knows  what  influence — 


378 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Swipes.  Am  I not  named  first  in  her  will?  and  did  L not 
furnish  her  with  my  best  small  beer,  for  more  than  six  months? 
and  who  knows — 

Frank.  Gentlemen,  I must  leave  you.  \_Going.'\ 

Squire.  \_Piitting  on  his  spectacles  very  deliberately.^  Pi*3;y, 
gentlemen,  keep  your  seats,  I have  not  done  yet.  Let  me 
see;  where  was  I?  Ay,  “All  my  property,  both  personal 
and  real,  to  my  dear  cousins,  Samuel  Swipes  of  Malt-Street, 
brewer,” — 

Swipes.  Yes! 

Squire.  “And  Christopher  Currie,  of  Fly-Court,  saddler,”. 

Gur.  Yes ! 

Squire.  “ To  have  and  to  hold,  IN  trust,  for  the  sole 
and  '^'exclusive  benefit  of  my  nephew,  Francis  Millington, 
until  he  shall  have  attained  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  by 
which  time,  I hope  he  will  have  so  far  '•'reformed  his  evil 
habits,  as  that  he  may  safely  be  intrusted  with  the  large  fort- 
une which  I hereby  '•'bequeath  to  him.” 

Swipes.  What  is  all  this?  You  don’t  mean  that  we  are 
humbugged?  In  trust!  How  does  that  appear?  Where 
is  it? 

Squire.  There;  in  two  words  of  as  good  old  English  as  I 
ever  penned. 

Cur.  Pretty  well  too,  Mr.  Squire,  if  we  must  be  sent  for, 
to  be  made  a laughing  stock  of.  She  shall  pay  for  every  ride 
she  has  had  out  of  my  chaise,  I promise  you. 

Swipes.  And  for  every  drop  of  my  beer.  Fine  times,  if 
two  sober,  hard-working  citizens  are  to  be  brought  here,  to 
be  made  the  sport  of  a graceless  '•'profiigate.  But  we  will 
manage  his  property  for  him,  Mr.  Currie;  we  will  make  him 
feel  that  trustees  are  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

Cur.  That  we  will. 

Squire.  Not  so  fast,  gentlemen;  for  the  '•'instrument  is 
dated  three  years  ago ; and  the  young  gentleman  must  be 
already  of  age,  and  able  to  take  care  of  himself.  Is  it  not 
so,  Francis? 

Frank.  It  is,  your  worship. 

Squire.  Then,  gentlemen,  having  attended  to  the  break- 
ing of  the  seal,  according  to  law,  you  are  released  from  any 
further  trouble  about  the  business. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


379 


CLL— THE  NATURAL  AND  MORAL  WORLDS. 

From  Grimke. 

1.  Man,  the  noblest  work  of  Grod,  in  this  lower  world, 
walks  abroad  through  its  '‘'labyrinths  of  grandeur  and  beauty, 
amid  countless  manifestations  of  creative  power  and  provi- 
dential wisdom.  He  acknowledges,  in  all  that  he  beholds, 
the  might  that  called  them  into  being;  the  skill  which  per- 
fected the  harmony  of  the  parts,  and  the  benevolence  which 
■‘'consecrated  all  to  the  glory  of  Grod  and  the  welfare  of  his 
fellow-creatures.  He  stands  entranced  on  the  peak  of  '‘'^tna, 
or  ■‘'Teneriffe,  or  '‘'Montserrat,  and  looks  down  upon  the  far 
distant  ocean,  silent  to  his  ear,  and  tranquil  to  his  eye,  amid 
the  rushing  of  tempestuous  winds,  and  the  fierce  confiict  of 
stormy  billows.  He  sits  '‘'enraptured  on  the  mountain  sum- 
mit, and  beholds,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  a forest  robe, 
flowing  in  all  the  varieties  of  graceful  '‘'undulations,  over 
declivity  after  declivity,  as  though  the  '‘'fabulous  river  of  the 
skies  were  pouring  its  azure  waves  over  all  the  landscape. 

2.  He  hangs  over  the  precipice,  and  gazes  with  awful  de 
light  on  the  savage  glen,  rent  open  as  it  were,  by  the  earth- 
quake, and  black  with  lightning-shattered  rocks;  its  only 
music  the  echoing  thunder,  the  scream  of  the  lonely  eagle, 
and  the  ‘'tumultuous  waters  of  the  mountain  torrent.  He 
reclines,  in  pensive  mood,  on  the  hill-top,  and  sees  around 
and  beneath  him,  all  the  '‘'luxuriant  beauties  of  field  and 
meadow,  of  olive-yard  and  vineyard,  of  wandering  stream  and 
grove-encircled  lake. 

3.  He  descends  to  the  plain,  and  amid  waving  harvests,  ver- 
dant ■‘'avenues,  and  luxuriant  orchards,  sees  between  garden 
and  grass  plat,  the  farm-house,  embosomed  in  '‘'copse-wood,  or 

tall  ■‘'ancestral  trees.”  He  walks  through  the  valley,  fenced 
in  by  barrier  cliffs,  to  contemplate,  with  mild  enthusiasm,  its 
scenes  of  pastoral  beauty;  the  cottage  and  its  blossomed  ar- 
bor, the  shepherd  and  his  flock,  the  clumps  of  oaks,  or  the 
solitary  willow.  He  enters  the  caverns  buried  far  beneath  the 
surface,  and  is  struck  with  amazement  at  the  grandeur  and 
magnificence  of  a '‘'subterranean  palace,  hewn  out  as  it  were, 
by  the  power  of  the  '‘'Grenii,  and  '‘'decorated  by  the  taste  of 
Armida,  or  of  the  Queen  of  the  Fairies. 

4.  Such  is  the  natural  world;  and  such,  for  the  most  part. 


380 


NEAV  SIXTH  READER. 


has  it  ever  been  since  men  began  to  subdue  the  wilderness, 
to  scatter  the  ornaments  of  civilization  amid  the  rural  scenery 
of  nature,  and  to  plant  the  lily  on  the  margin  of  the  deep, 
the  village  on  the  hill-side,  and  '^'martial  '^battlements  in  the 
’^'defiles  of  the  mountains.  Such  has  been  the  natural  world, 
whether  beheld  by  the  eye  of  savage  or  barbarian,  of  the 
civilized  or  the  refined.  Such  has  it  been,  for  the  most  part, 
whether  contemplated  by  the  harpers  of  Glreece,  the  bards  of 
Northern  Europe,  or  the  '^'voluptuous  minstrels  of  the  Trou- 
badour age.  Such  it  was,  when  its  beauties,  like  scattered 
stars,  beamed  on  the  page  of  classic  "^lore ; and  such,  when  its 
“sunshine  of  picture”  poured  a flood  of  meridian  splendor  on 
modern  literature.  Such  is  the  natural  world  to  the  ancient 
and  the  modern,  the  pagan  and  the  Christian. 

5.  Admirable  as  the  natural  world  is  for  its  sublimity  and 
beauty,  who  would  c()mpare  it,  even  for  an  instant,  with  the 
sublimity  and  beauty  of  the  moral  world?  Is  not  the  soul, 
with  its  glorious  destiny,  and  its  capacities  for  eternal  hap- 
piness, more  awful  and  majestic  than  the  boundless  Pacific  or 
the  '’'interminable  Andes?  Is  not  the  mind,  with  its  thoughts 
that  wander  through  eternity,  and  its  wealth  of  intellectual 
power,  an  object  of  more  intense  interest,  than  forest,  or '’’cat- 
aract, or  precipice  ? And  the  heart,  so  eloquent  in  the  depth, 
purity,  and  '’'pathos  of  its  affections,  can  the  richest  scenery 
of  hill  and  dale,  can  the  melody  of  breeze,  and  brook,  and 
bird,  rival  it  in  loveliness? 

6.  The  same  God  is  the  author  of  the  invisible  and  visible 
world.  The  moral  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  world  of  man, 
are 'equally  the  production  of  his  wisdom  and  goodness,  with 
the  fair,  the  sublime,  the  wonderful  in  the  physical  creation. 
What,  indeed,  are  these,  but  the  outward  manifestations  of 
his  might,  skill,  and  benevolence?  What  are  they  but  a glo- 
rious volume,  forever  speaking  to  the  eye  and  ear  of  man,  in 
the  language  of  sight  and  sound,  the  praises  of  its  author? 
And  what  are  those  but  images,  faint  and  imperfect  as  they 
are,  of  his  own  '‘'incomprehensible  '’'attributes?  What  are 
they,  the  soul,  the  mind,  the  heart  of  an  immortal  being,  but 
the  temple  of  the  Holy  Spirit;  the  dwelling-place  of  him 
whom  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  can  not  contain,  who  inhabiteth 
eternity?  How  then  can  we  compare,  even  for  a moment, 
the  world  of  nature  with  the  world  of  man? 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


381 


CLIL— THE  PLEASANT  RAIN. 

From  Miller. 

1.  The  pleasant  rain ! the  pleasant  rain ! 

By  fits  it  plashing  falls 
On  '•'twangling  leaf  and  dimpling  '•'pool; 

How  sweet  its  warning  calls ! 

'^i'hey  know  it,  all  the  blooming  vales, 

High  slopes  and  verdant  "^meads ; 

The  queenly  elms  and  princely  oaks 
Bow  dovvui  their  grateful  heads. 

2.  The  withering  grass,  and  fading  flowers, 

And  drooping  shrubs  look  gay; 

The  bubbling  brook,  with  gladlier  song, 
'Hies  on  its  endless  way  ; 

All  things  of  earth,  the  grateful  things. 

Put  on  their  robes  of  cheer; 

They  hear  the  sound  of  the  warning  burst, 
And  know  the  rain  is  near. 

3.  It  comes ! it  comes ! the  pleasant  rain ! 

I drink  its  cooler  breath; 

It  is  rich  with  sighs  of  fainting  flowers, 

And  roses’  ^fragrant  death; 

It  hath  kissed  the  tomb  of  the  lily  pale, 

The  beds  where  violets  die ; 

And  it  bears  their  life  on  its  living  wing, 

I feel  it  wandering  by. 

4.  And  yet  it  comes!  The  lightning’s  flash 

Hath  torn  the  lowering  cloud  I 
With  a distant  roar  and  a nearer  crash, 

Out  bursts  the  thunder  loud. 

It  comes,  with  the  rush  of  a god’s  descent. 

On  the  hushed  and  trembling  earth, 

To  visit  the  ‘''shrines  of  the  hallowed  grovew- 
Where  a poet’s  soul  had  birth. 

5.  With  a rush,  as  of  a thousand  steeds. 

Is  its  swift  and  glad  descent; 

Beneath  the  weight  of  its  passing  tread. 

The  '*;conscious  groves  are  bent; 

Its  heavy  tread,  it  is  lighter  now, 

And  yet,  it  passeth  on; 

And  now  it  is  up,  with  a sudden  liftj^ 

The  pleasant  rain  hath  gone^ 

32 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


G.  The  pleasant  rain!  the  pleasant  rain! 

It  hath  passed  above  the  earth: 

1 see  the  smile  of  the  opening  cloud, 

Like  the  parted  lips  of  mirth. 

The  golden  joy  is  spreading  wide 
Along  the  blushing  west, 

And  the  happy  earth  gives  back  her  smilee, 
Like  the  flow  of  a grateful  breast. 

7.  As  a blessing  sinks  in  a grateful  heart, 

That  knoweth  all  its  need. 

So  came  the  good  of  the  pleasant  rain, 

O’er  hill  and  verdant  "tmead. 

It  shall  breathe  this  truth  on  the  human  ear, 
In  hall  and  '^'cotter’s  home. 

That  to  bring  the  gift  of  a bounteous  heaven, 
The  pleasant  rain  hath  come. 


CLIII.— THE  SNOW-FLAKE. 

FroiM  Miss  Gould. 

Hannah  F,  Gould  was  born  in  Lancaster,  Vermont,  in  1792.  Hei 
poems  are  full  of  beauty  and  sprightliness,  and  are  always  instructive. 
Iris  ; the  rainbow. 

I.  “Now  if  I fall,  will  it  be  my  lot 

To  be  cast  in  some  low  and  cruel  spot. 

To  melt  or  sink  unseen  or  forgot? 

And  then  will  my  course  be  ended?” 

'Twas  thus  a feathery  Snow-flake  said. 

As  down  through  the  '^measureless  space  it  strayed, 

Or,  as  half  by  '^dalliance,  half  afraid. 

It  seemed  in  mid  air  suspended. 

2 “O  no,”said  the  Earth,  “thou  shalt  not  lie, 

Neglected  and  lone,  on  my  lap  to  die, 

Thou  fine  and  delicate  child  of  the  sky: 

For  thou  wilt  be  safe  in  my  keeping. 

But,  then,  I must  give  thee  a lovelier  form; 

Thou ’It  not  be  a part  of  the  wintry  storm. 

But  revive,  when  the  sunbeams  are  yellow  and  warm, 
And  the  flowers  from  my  bosom  are  peeping. 

3.  “And  then  thou  shalt  have  thy  choice,  to  be 
Restored  in  the  lily  that  decks  the  ‘'lea, 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


383 


In  the  ^jessamine  bloom,  the  ^anemone, 

Or  aught  of  thy  spotless  whiteness: 

To  melt,  and  be  cast  in  a glittering  bead. 

With  the  pearls  that  night  scatters  o’er  the  mead, 
In  the  cup  where  the  bee  and  the  fire-fly  feed. 
Regaining  thy  dazzling  brightness : 

4.  ‘‘To  wake,  and  be  raised  from  thy  transient  sleep, 
Where  Viola’s  mild  blue  eye  shall  weep. 

In  a tremulous  tear;  or, a diamond,  leap 
In  a drop  from  the  unlocked  fountain  ; 

Or,  leaving  the  valley,  the  meadow,  and  heath, 

The  streamlet,  the  flowers,  and  all  beneath. 

To  go  and  be  wove  in  the  silvery  wreath, 
■‘'Encircling  the  brow  of  the  mountain. 

5.  “Or  wouldst  thou  return  to  a home  in  the  skies, 

To  shine  in  the  Iris,  I ’ll  let  thee  arise. 

And  appear  in  the  many  and  glorious  dyes, 

A pencil  of  sunbeams  is  blending. 

But  true,  fair  thing,  as  my  name  is  Earth, 

I ’ll  give  thee  a new  and  '‘'vernal  birth. 

When  thou  shalt  recover  thy  '‘'primal  worthy 
And  never  regret  descending!” 

6.  “Then  I will  drop,”  said  the  trusting  Flake; 

“ But,  bear  in  mind  that  the  choice  I make. 

Is  not  in  the  flowers  or  the  dew  to  wake, 

Nor  the  mist,  that  shall  pass  with  the  morning: 
For,  things  of  thyself,  they  expire  with  thee; 

But  those  that  are  lent  from  on  high,  like  me. 

They  rise,  and  will  live,  from  thy  dust  set  free. 

To  the  regions  above  returning. 

7.  “And  if  true  to  thy  word,  and  just  thou  art. 

Like  the  spirit  that  dwells  in  the  holiest  heart, 

■‘'Unsullied  by  thee,  thou  wilt  let  me  depart. 

And  return  to  my  native  heaven; 

For  I would  be  placed  in  the  beautiful  bow, 

From  time  to  time  in  thy  sight  to  glow. 

So  thou  may’st  remember  the  Flake  of  Snow, 

By  the  promise  that  God  hath  given!” 


384 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


CLIV.  -THE  TEACHER  AND  SICK  SCHOLAR. 

From  Dickens. 

1.  Shortly  after  the  school-master  had  arranged  the  forms 
and  taken  his  seat  behind  his  desk,  a small  white-headed  boy 
with  a sunburnt  face  appeared  at  the  door,  and  stopping 
there  to  make  a '•'rustic  bow,  came  in  and  took  his  seat  upon 
one  of  the  forms.  He  then  put  an  open  book,  astonishingly 
“^dog’s-eared,  upon  his  knees,  and  thrusting  his  hands  into 
his  pockets,  began  counting  the  marbles  with  which  they 
were  tilled ; displaying,  in  the  expression  of  his  face,  a re- 
markable ''  capacity  of  totally  '•'abstracting  his  mind  from  the 
spelling  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed. 

2.  Soon  afterward,  another  white-headed  little  boy  came 
straggling  in,  and  after  him,  a red-headed  lad,  and  then,  one 
with  a flaxen  '•'poll,  until  the  forms  were  occupied  by  a dozen 
boys,  or  thereabouts,  with  heads  of  every  color  but  gray, 
and  '•'ranging  in  their  ages  from  four  years  old  to  fourteen 
years  or  more ; for  the  legs  of  the  youngest  were  a long  way 
from  the  fioor,  when  he  sat  upon  the  form ; and  the  eldest 
was  a heavy,  good-tempered  fellow,  about  half  a head  taller 
than  the  school-master. 

3.  At  the  top  of  the  first  form — the  post  of  honor  in  the 
school — was  the  vacant  place  of  the  little  sick  scholar;  and, 
at  the  head  of  the  row  of  pegs,  on  which  those  who  wore  hats 
or  caps  were  wont  to  hang  them,  one  was  empty.  No  boy  at- 
tempted to  violate  the  '•'sanctity  of  seat  or  peg,  but  many  a one 
looked  from  the  empty  spaces  to  the  school-master,  and  whis- 
pered to  his  idle  neighbor,  behind  his  hand. 

4.  Then  began  the  hum  of  '•'conning  over  lessons  and 
getting  them  by  heart,  the  whispered  jest  and  stealthy  game, 
and  all  the  noise  and  drawl  of  school ; and  in  the  midst  of 
the  din,  sat  the  poor  school-master,  vainly  attempting  to  fix  his 
mind  upon  the  duties  of  the  day,  and  to  forget  his  little  sick 
friend.  But  the  '•'tedium  of  his  ofiice  reminded  him  more 
strongly  of  the  willing  scholar,  and  his  thoughts  were 
■•'rambling  from  his  pupils — it  was  plain. 

5.  None  knew  this  better  than  the  idlest  boys,  who,  growing 
bolder  with  '•'impunity,  waxed  louder  and  more  daring;  play.. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


385 


ing  ‘‘odd  or  even”  under  the  master’s  eye;  eating  apples 
openly  and  without  rebuke;  pinching  each  other  in  sport  or 
'^'malice,  without  the  least  reserve ; and  cutting  their  "^initials 
in  the  very  legs  of  his  desk.  The  puzzled  dunce,  who  stood 
beside  it  to  say  his  lesson  “off  the  book,”  looked  no  longer 
at  the  ceiling  for  forgotten  words,  but  drew  closer  to  the  mas- 
ter’s elbow,  and  boldly  cast  his  eye  upon  the  page;  the  wag 
of  the  little  troop  squinted  and  made  "^grimaces  (at  the  small- 
est boy,  of  course),  holding  no  book  before  his  face,  and  his 
approving  companions  knew  no  constraint  in  their  delight. 
If'  the  master  did  chance  to  rouse  himself,  and  seem  alive 
to  what  was  going  on,  the  noise  subsided  for  a moment,  and 
no  eye  met  his,  but  wore  a studious  and  deeply  humble  look; 
but  the  instant  he  '^'relapsed  again,  it  broke  out  afresh,  and 
ten  times  louder  than  before. 

6.  Oh  ! how  some  of  those  idle  fellows  longed  to  be  out- 
side, and  how  they  looked  at  the  open  door  and  window,  as 
if  they  half  '^'meditated  rushing  violently  out,  plunging  into 
the  woods,  and  being  wild  boys  and  savages  from  that  time 
forth.  What  rebellious  thoughts  of  the  cool  river,  and  some 
shady  bathing-place,  beneath  willow  trees  with  branches 
dipping  in  the  water,  kept  tempting  and  urging  that  sturdy 
boy,  who,  with  his  shirt-collar  unbuttoned,  and  flung  back  as 
far  as  it  could  go,  sat  fanning  his  flushed  face  with  a spelling- 
book,  wishing  himself  a whale,  or  a minnow,  or  a fly,  or  any 
thing  but  a boy  at  school,  on  that  hot,  broiling  day. 

7.  Heat!  ask  that  other  boy,  whose  seat  being  nearest  to 
the  door,  gave  him  '♦'opportunities  of  gliding  out  into  the 
garden,  and  driving  his  companions  to  madness,  by  dipping 
his  face  into  the  bucket  of  the  well,  and  then  rolling  on  the 
grass, — ask  him  if  there  was  ever  such  a day  as  that,  when 
even  the  bees  were  diving  deep  down  into  the  cups  of  the 
flowers,  and  stopping  there,  as  if  they  had  made  up  their 
minds*  to  retire  from  business,  and  be  manufacturers  of  honey 
no  more.  The  day  was  made  for  laziness,  and  lying  on  one’s 
back  in  green  places,  and  staring  at  the  sky,  till  its  bright- 
ness forced  the  gazer  to  shut  his  eyes  and  go  to  sleep.  And 
was  this  a time  to  be  '‘'poring  over  musty  books  in  a dark 
room,  slighted  by  the  very  sun  itself?  Monstrous! 

8.  The  lessons  over,  writing  time  began.  This  was  a more 


386 


NEW  SIXTH  READER 


quiet  time;  for  the  master  would  come  and  look  over  the 
writer  s shoulder,  and  mildly  tell  him  to  observe  how  such 
a letter  was  turned  up,  in  such  a copy  on  ^he  wall,  which 
had  been  written  by  their  sick  companion,  and  bid  him  take 
it  as  a ■^model.  Then  he  would  stop  and  tell  them  what 
the  sick  child  had  said  last  night,  and  how  he  had  longed 
to  be  among  them  once  again ; and  such  was  the  poor  school- 
master’s gentle  and  affectionate  manner,  that  the  boys  seemed 
quite  '♦'remorseful  that  they  had  worried  him  so  much,  and 
were  absolutely  quiet;  eating  no  apples,  cutting  no  names, 
and  making  no  '♦'grimaces  for  full  two  minutes  afterward. 

9.  think,  boys,”  said  the  school-master,  when  the  clock 
struck  twelve,  “ that  I shall  give  you  an  extra  half-holiday 
this  afternoon.”  At  this  intelligence,  the  boys,  led  on  and 
headed  by  the  tall  boy,  raised  a great  shout,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  master  was  seen  to  speak,  but  could  not  be  heard. 
As  he  held  up  his  hand,  however,  in  token  of  his  wish  that 
they  should  be  silent,  they  were  '♦'considerate  enough  to  leave 
off,  as  soon  as  the  longest-winded  among  them  were  quite 
out  of  breath.  “You  must  promise  me,  first,”  said  the 
school-master,  “ that  you  ’ll  not  be  noisy,  or  at  least,  if  you 
are,  that  you  ’ll  go  away  first,  out  of  the  village,  I mean. 
I ’m  sure  you  would  n’t  disturb  your  old  playmate  and 
companion.”  ^ 

10.  There  was  a general  murmur  (and  perhaps  a very 
sincere  one,  for  they  were  but  boys),  in  the  negative;  and 
the  tall  boy,  perhaps  as  sincerely  as  any  of  them,  called 
those  about  him  to  witness,  that  he  had  only  shouted  in 
a whisper.  “ Then  pray  do  n’t  forget,  there ’s  my  dear 
scholars,”  said  the  school-master,  “what  I have  asked  you, 
and  do  it  as  a favor  to  me.  Be  as  happy  as  you  can,  and 
do  n’t  be  unmindful  that  you  are  blessed  with  health.  Good<> 
by,  all.” 

11.  “ Thank  ’ee,  sir,”  and  “ Good-by,  sir,”  were  said  a great 
many  times  in  a great  variety  of  voices,  and  the  boys  went 
out  very  slowly  and  softly.  But  there  was  the  sun  shining, 
and  there  were  birds  singing,  as  the  sun  only  shines,  and 
the  birds  only  sing,  on  holidays  and  half-holidays ; there 
were  the  trees  waving  to  all  free  boys  to  climb,  and  nestle 
among  their  leafy  branches;  the  hay,  entreating  them  to 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


387 


come  and  scatter  it  to  the  pure  air;  the  green  corn,  gently 
beckoning  toward  wood  and  stream;  the  smooth  ground, 
rendered  smoother  still  by  '^'blending  lights  and  shadows, 
inviting  to  runs  and  leaps,  and  long  walks,  nobody  knows 
whither.  It  was  more  than  boy  could  bear,  and  with  a joy- 
ous whoop,  the  whole  cluster  took  to  their  heels,  and  spread 
themselves  about,  shouting  and  laughing  as  they  went.  “ ’T  is 
natural,  thank  Heaven!”  said  the  poor  school-master,  look- 
ing after  them:  “I  am  very  glad  they  didn’t  mind  me.” 

12.  Toward  night,  the  school-master  walked  over  to  the 
cottage  where  his  little  friend  lay  sick.  Knocking  gently 
at  the  cottage  door,  it  was  opened  without  loss  of  time.  He 
entered  a room  where  a group  of  women  were  gathered  about 
one  who  was  wringing  her  hands  and  crying  bitterly.  “ O 
dame!”  said  the  school-master,  drawing  near  her  chair,  “is 
it  so  bad  as  this?”  Without  replying,  she  pointed  to 
another  room,  which  the  school-master  immediately  entered ; 
and  there  lay  his  little  friend,  half-dressed,  stretched  upon 
a bed. 

13.  He  was  a very  young  boy;  quite  a little  child.  His 
hair  still  hung  in  curls  about  his  face,  and  his  eyes  were 
very  bright;  but  their  light  was  of  heaven,  not  of  earth. 
The  school-master  took  a seat  beside  him,  and  stooping  over 
thg  pillow,  whispered  his  name.  The  boy  sprung  up,  stroked 
his  face  with  his  hand,  and  threw  his  wasted  arms  around 
his  neck,  crying,  that  he  was  his  dear,  kind  friend.  “1 
hope  I always  was.  I meant  to  be,  Grod  knows,”  said  the 
poor  school-master.  “You  remember  my  garden,  Henry?” 
whispered  the  old  man,  anxious  to  rouse  him,  for  a dull- 
ness seemed  gathering  upon  the  child,  “ and  how  pleasant 
it  used  to  be  in  the  evening-time?  You  must  make  haste 
to  visit  it  again,  for  I think  the  very  flowers  have  missed  you, 
and  are  less  gay  than  they  used  to  be.  You  will  come  soon, 
very  soon  now,  won’t  you?” 

14.  The  boy  smiled  faintly — so  very,  very  faintly — and 
put  his  hand  upon  his  friend’s  gray  head.  He  moved  his 
lips  too,  but  no  voice  came  from  them,  no,  not  a sound.  In 
the  silence  that  '^'ensued,  the  hum  of  distant  voices  borne 
upon  the  evening  air,  came  floating  through  the  open  window. 
“What’s  that?”  said  the  sick  child,  opening  his  eyes.  “The 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


boys  at  play,  upon  the  green.”  He  took  a handkerchief  from 
his  pillow,  and  tried  to  wave  it  above  his  head.  But  the 
feeble  arm  dropped  powerless  down.  “Shall  I do  it?”  said 
the  school-master.  “Please  wave  it  at  the  window,”  was  the 
faint  reply.  “ Tie  it  to  the  '^'lattice.  Some  of  them  may 
see  it  there.  Perhaps  they  ’ll  think  of  me,  and  look  this 
way.” 

15.  He  raised  his  head  and  glanced  from  the  "^fluttering 
■^'signal  to  his  idle  bat,  that  lay,  with  slate,  and  book,  and 
other  boyish  property,  upon  the  table  in  the  room.  And 
then  he  laid  him  softly  down  once  more ; and  again  clasped 
his  little  arms  around  the  old  man’s  neck.  The  two  old 
friends  and  companions — for  such  they  were,  though  they 
were  man  and  child — held  each  other  in  a long  embrace, 
and  then  the  little  scholar  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and 
fell  asleep. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

16.  The  poor  school-master  sat  in  the  same  place,  holding 
the  small,  cold  hand  in  his,  and  chafing  it.  It  was  but  the 
hand  of  a dead  child.  He  felt  that;  and  yet  he  chafed  it 
still,  and  could  not  lay  it  down. 


CLV.— THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

From  Edwards. 

1.  She  said  she  was  alone  within  the  world; 

How  could  she  but  be  sad  ? 

She  whispered  something  of  a lad, 

With  eyes  of  blue,  and  light  hair  sweetly  curled; 

But  the  grave  had  the  child! 

And  yet  his  voice  she  heard, 

When  at  the  ^lattice,  calm  and  mild, 

The  mother  in  the  twilight  saw  the  vine-leaves  stirred 
“Mother,”  it  seemed  to  say, 

“I  love  thee; 

When  thou  dost  by  the  side  of  thy  lone  pillow  pray, 
My  spirit  whites  the  words  above  thee ; 

Mother,  I watch  o’er  thee ; I love  thee!  ” 

2.  Where  was  the  husband  of  the  widowed  thing, 

That  Iseraph’s  earthly  sire? 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


389 


A soldier  dares  a soldier  s fire; 

The  murderous  ball  brought  death  upon  its  wuig; 

Beneath  a foreign  sky 
He  fell,  in  sunny  Spain ; 

The  wife,  in  silence,  saw  him  die. 

But  the  fond  boy  s blue  eyes  gave  drops  like  sunny  t-ain. 
‘‘Mother!”  the  poor  lad  cried, 

“He’s  dying! 

We  are  close  by  thee,  father,  at  thy  bleeding  side, 
Dost  thou  not  hear  thy  Arthur  crying  ? 

Mother!  his  lips  arc  closed;  he’s  dying!” 

3.  It  was  a stormy  time,  where  the  man  fell, 

And  the  youth  shrunk  and  '•'pined ; 

'•'Consumption’s  worm  his  pulse  '•'entwined; 

^‘'Prepare  his  shroud!^'  rang  out  the  convent  bell, 

Yet  through  his  pain  he  smiled, 

To  soothe  a parent’s  grief; 

Sad  soul ! she  could  not  be  '•'beguiled  ; 

She  saw  the  bud  would  leave  the  guardian  leaf! 
“Mother!  ” he  faintly  said, 

“ Come  near  me ; 

Kiss  me,  and  let  me  in  my  father’s  grave  be  laid; 

I’ve  prayed  that  I might  still  be  near  thee; 
Mother!  I’ll  come  again  and  cheer  thee.” 


CLVI.— THE  LITTLE  BROOK  AND  THE  STAR. 

1.  Once  upon  a time,  in  the  leafy  '•'covert  of  a wild,  woody 
'•'dingle,  there  lived  (for  it  was  indeed  a thing  of  life,)  a cer- 
tain little  Brook,  that  might  have  been  the  happiest  creature 
in  the  world,  if  it  had  but  known  when  it  was  well  off,  and 
been  content  with  the  station  assigned  to  it  by  an  unerring 
Providence.  But  in  that  knowledge  and  that  content,  con- 
sists the  true  secret  of  happiness;  and  the  silly  little  Brook 
never  found  out  the  mystery,  until  it  was  too  late  to  profit 
by  it. 

2.  I can  not  say,  positively,  from  what  source  the  little 
Brook  came;  but  it  appeared  to  '•'well  out  from  beneath  the 
hollow  root  of  an  old  thorn;  and,  collecting  together  its  '•'pel- 
lucid waters,  so  as  to  form  a small  pool  within  that  knotty 
‘•'reservoir,  it  swelled  '•'imperceptibly  over  its  irregular  '•'margin, 

33 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


and  slipped  away,  unheard, — almost  unseen, — among  mossy 
stones  and  entangling  branches.  No  '^emerald  was  ever  so 
green ; never  was  velvet  so  soft,  as  the  beautiful  moss  which 
encircled  that  tiny  lake ; and  it  was  gemmed  and  embroid- 
ered, too,  by  all  bowers  that  love  the  shade;  pale  primroses 
and  nodding  violets;  '^anemones,  with  their  fair,  downcast 
heads;  and  starry  clusters  of  forget-me-nots,  looking  lovingly, 
with  their  pale,  tender  eyes,  into  the  bosom  of  their  native 
rill. 

3.  The  hawthorn’s  branches  were  '’'interwoven  above,  with 
those  of  a holly;  and  a woodbine,  climbing  up  the  stem  of 
one  tree,  flung  across  to  the  other  its  '’'flexible  arms,  knotting 
together  the  mingled  foliage,  with  its  rich  clusters  and 
elegant  '’'festoons,  like  a fair  sister,  growing  up  under  the 
guardianship  of  two  beloved  brothers,  and,  by  her  endearing 
witchery,  drawing  together,  in  closer  union,  their  already 
united  hearts.  Never  was  little  Brook  so  delightfully  situ- 
ated ; for  its  existence,  though  '’'secluded,  was  neither  monot- 
onous nor  solitary.  A thousand  trifling  incidents  (trifling, 
but  not  uninteresting),  were  perpetually  varying  the  scene; 
and  innumerable  -living  creatures,  the  gentlest  and  loveliest 
of  the  '’'sylvan  tribes,  familiarly  haunted  its  retreat. 

4.  Beautiful,  there,  was  every  season  with  its  changes ! In 
the  year’s  fresh  morning,  delicious  May  or  ripening  June,  if 
a light  breeze  but  stirred  in  the  hawthorn  tops,  down  on  the 
dimpling  water  came  a shower  of  milky  blossoms,  loading 
the  air  with  fragrance  as  they  fell.  Then,  came  the  squirrel 
with  his  mirthful  antics.  Then,  rustling  through  fern  and 
brush-wood,  stole  the  timid  hare,  half  startled,  as  she  slaked 
her  thirst  at  the  still  fountain,  by  the  liquid  reflection  of  her 
own  large,  '’'lustrous  eyes.  There  was  no  lack  of  music  round 
about.  A song-thrush  had  his  '‘'domicile  hard  by ; and,  even 
at  night,  his  mellow  voice  was  heard,  contending  with  a night- 
ingale, in  scarce  unequal  rivalry.  And  other  vocalists,  innu- 
merable, awoke  those  woodland  echoes.  Sweetest  of  all,  the 
low,  ’'tremulous  call  of  the  ring-dove  floated,  at  intervals, 
through  the  shivering  '’'foliage,  the  very  soul  of  sound  and 
tenderness. 

5.  In  winter,  the  glossy  green  and  '‘'coral  clusters  of  the 
holly,  flung  down  their  rich  reflections  on  the  little  pool,  then 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


391 


visited  through  the  leafless  boughs  with  a gleam  of  more 
perfect  daylight;  and  a redbreast,  which  had  built  its  nest, 
and  reared  its  young  among  the  twisted  roots  of  that  old 
tree,  still  hovered  about  his  summer  bower,  still  quenched  his 
thirst  at  the  little  Brook,  still  sought  his  food  on  its  mossy 
banks ; and,  tuning  his  small  pipe,  when  every  other  feath- 
ered throat,  but  his  own,  was  mute,  took  up  the  eternal  hymn 
of  gratitude,  which  began  with  the  birthday  of  Nature,  and 
shall  only  cease  with  her  expiring  breath.  So,  every  season 
brought  but  changes  of  j^leasantness  to  that  happy  little 
Brook:  and  happier  still  it  was, — or  might  have  been, — in 
one  sweet  and  tender  companionship,  to  which  passing  time 
and  revolving  seasons  brought  no  change. 

6.  True  it  was,  no  '‘'unintercepted  sunshine  ever  glittered- 
on  its  shaded  waters;  but,  just  above  the  spot  where  they 
were  gathered  into  that  fairy  fount,  a small  opening  in  the 
'•'overarching  foliage  admitted,  by  day,  a glimpse  of  the  blue 
sky ; and,  by  night,  the  mild,  pale  ray  of  a bright  flxed  Star, 
which  looked  down  into  the  stilly  water,  with  such  tender 
'•'radiance  as  beams  from  the  eyes  we  love  best,  when  they  rest 
upon  us  with  an  earnest  gaze  of  serious  tenderness.  Forever, 
and  forever,  when  night  came,  the  beautiful  Star  still  gazed 
on  its  earthborn  love,  which  seemed,  if  a wandering  air  but 
skimmed  its  surface,  to  stir,  as  if  with  life,  in  '•'responsive 
intercourse  with  its  bright  visitant. 

7.  Some  malicious  whispers  went  abroad,  indeed,  that  the 
■•'enamored  gaze  of  that  radiant  eye  was  not  always  exclusively 
fixed  on  the  little  Brook ; that  it  had  its  '•'oblique  glances  for 
other  favorites.  But  I take  it,  those  rumors  were  altogether 
■•'libelous,  mere  rural  '•'gossip,  scandalous  tittle-tattle,  got  up, 
between  two  old,  gray,  '•'mousing  owls,  who  w^ent  prowling 
about  and  prying  into  their  neighbors’  concerns,  when  they 
ought  to  have  been  in  their  beds,  at  home.  However  that 
may  be — though  I warrant  the  kind  creatures  were  too  con- 
scientious to  leave  the  little  Brook  in  ignorance  of  their 
candid  '•'conjectures — it  did  not  care  one  fig  about  the  matter, 
utterly  disregarding  every  syllable  they  said.  This  would 
have  been  highly  creditable  to  the  little  Brook,  if  its  light 
mode  of  dismissing  the  subject  had  not  been  partly  owing  to 
the  '•'engrossing  influence  of  certain  ’•’new-fangled  notions  and 


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desires,  which,  in  an  unhappy  hour,  had  '^insinuated  theiii’ 
selves  into  its  hitherto  untroubled  bosom. 

8.  Alas ! that  '^elementary  ? as  well  as  human  natures, 
should  be  liable  to  '‘'moral  '^infirmity!  But  that  they  are, 
was  strongly  exemplified  in  the  instance  of  our  luckless  lit- 
tle Brook.  You  must  know,  that,  notwithstanding  the  leafy 
recess,  in  which  it  was  so  snugly  located,  was,  to  all  inward 
appearance,  '‘'sequestered  as  in  the  heart  of  a vast  forest,  in 
point  of  fact,  it  only  skirted  the  edge  of  an  extensive  plain, 
in  one  part  of  which  lay  a large  pond,  to  which  herds  of  kine 
and  oxen  came  down  to  drink,  morning  and  evening,  and 
wherein  they  might  be  seen  standing  motionless  for  hours 
together,  during  the  sultry  summer  noon ; when  the  waveless 
water,  glowing  like  a fiery  mirror  under  the  meridian  blaze, 
reflected,  with  '‘'magical  effect,  the  huge  forms  and  varied 
coloring  of  the  '‘'congregated  cattle,  as  well  as  those  of  a flock 
of  stately,  milk-white  geese,  accustomed  to  swim  upon  its 
bosom. 

9.  Now,  it  so  chanced,  that  from  the  nook  of  which  we 
have  spoken,  encircled  as  it  was  by  leafy  walls,  there  opened, 
precisely  in  the  direction  of  the  plain  and  the  pond,  a cunning 
little  peep-hole,  which  must  have  been  '‘'perforated-  by  the 
demon  of  mischief,  and  which  no  eye  would  ever  have  spied 
out,  save  that  of  a '‘'lynx  or  an  idle  person.  Alas ! our  little 
Brook  was  an  idle  person;  she  had  nothing  in  the  world  to 
do  from  morning  to  night,  and  that  is  the  root  of  all  evil ; so, 
though  she  might  have  found  useful  occupation,  (every  body 
can,  if  they  seek  it  in  right  earnest,)  she  spent  her  whole  time 
in  peering  and  prying  about,  till,  one  unlucky  day,  what 
should  she  hit  upon,  but  that  identical  peep-hole,  through 
which,  as  through  a '‘'telescope,  she  discovered  with  unspeak- 
able amazement  the  great  pond,  all  glowing  in  the  noonday 
sun ; the  herds  of  cattle  and  the  flocks  of  geese,  so  brilliantly 
redoubled  on  its  broad  mirror. 

10.  My  stars  ! ” ejaculated  the  little  brook,  (little  thoughfi 
she  at  that  moment,  of  the  one  faithful  Star.)  “ My  stars  1 
what  can  all  this  be?  It  looks  something  like  me,  only  a 
thousand  times  as  big.  What  can  be  shining  so  upon  it?  and 
what  can  those  great  creatures  be?  Not  hares,  surely,  though 
they  have  legs  and  tails;  but  such  tails!  And  those  other 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


393 


white  things,  that  float  about,  they  can  not  be  birds,  for  they 
have  no  legs,  and  yet  they  seem  to  liave  feathers  and  wings. 
What  a life  of  ignorance  have  I led,  huddled  up  in  this  poor, 
little,  dull  place,  visited  only  by  a few,  mean,  "^humdrum 
creatures,  and  never  suspecting  that  the  world  contained 
finer  things  and  grander  company.” 

11.  Till  this  unfortunate  discovery,  the  little  Brook  had 
been  well  enough  satisfied  with  her  condition;  contented  with 
the  society  of  the  beautiful  and  gentle  creatures  which  fre- 
quented her  retreat,  and  with  the  tender  admiration  of  her 
own  “bright  unchanging  Star.”  But  now,  there  was  an  end 
to  all  content,  and  no  end  to  'garrulous  discontent  and  end- 
less curiosity.  The  latter,  she  soon  found  means  to  satisfy, 
for  the  sky-lark  brought  her  flaming  accounts  of  the  sun,  at 
whose  court  he  pretended  to  be  a frequent  visitor ; and  the 
water-wagtail  was  dispatched  to  ascertain  the  precise  nature 
of  those  other  mysterious  objects,  so  bewildering  to  the  lim- 
ited ''faculties  of  the  curious  little  Brook. 

12.  Back  came  the  little  messenger,  mopping  * and  mow- 
ing,* and  wagging  his  tail  with  the  most  '''fantastic  airs  of 
conceited  importance.  “Well,  what  is  it?”  quoth  my  lady 
Brook.  “Water, upon  my  veracity,”  quoth  Master  Wagtail, 
“monstrous  piece  of  water,  five  hundred  thousand  million 
times  as  big  as  your  ladyship.”  “And  what  makes  it  so 
bright  and  glowing,  instead  of  my  dull  color?”  quoth  my 
lady.  “ The  sun,  that  shines  full  upon  it,”  rejoins  the '''envoy. 
“ Oh ! that  glorious  globe,  the  sky-lark  talks  of.  How  de- 
lightful it  must  be  to  enjoy  his  notice!  But  what  are  those 
fine  creatures  with  legs,  and  those  others  with  wings  and  no 
legs?”  “Oh!  those  are  cows,  and  oxen,  and  geese;  but  you 
can  not  possibly  '''comprehend  their  natures,  never  having 
seen  any  thing  larger  than  a hare  or  wood-pigeon.”  “ How 
now.  Master  Malapert?”  quoth  my  lady,  nettled  to  the  quick 
at  his  '''impertinence ; — but  her  curiosity  was  not  half  '''sa- 
tiated : so  she  was  fain  to  gulp  down  her  oWn  insulted  dig- 
nity, and  went  on  questioning  and  cross-questioning,  till  she 
was  ready  to  bubble  over  with  spite  and  envy  at  Master  Wag- 
tail’s wonderful  relations.  Poor  thing!  she  did  not  know 
what  allowance  to  make  for  travelers’  stories. 

Making  wry  faces. 


Sd4 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


CLVI[.— THE  BROOK  AND  STAR— CONCLUDED. 

1.  Thenceforward,  the  little  Brook  ''perfectly  ''loathed 
her  own  peaceful,  ‘'unobtrusive  lot.  She  would  have  shrunk 
away,  had  it  been  possible,  from  the  poor,  innocent  creatures, 
who  had  so  long  enlivened  her  pleasant  solitude.  And,  worst 
of  all,  most  unpardonable  of  all,  she  sickened  at  the  sight  of 
her  '‘'benignant  Star,  which  continued  to  look  down  upon  her 
as  fondly  and  kindly  as  ever,  still  happily  unconscious  of  her 
heartless  '‘'estrangement.  Well,  she  went  on  fretting  and  re- 
pining from  day  to  day,  till  dame  Nature,  fairly  tired  out 
with  her  wayward  humor,  resolved  to  punish  her,  as  she  de- 
served, by  granting  her  heart’s  desire.  One  summer  morn- 
ing, came  two  sturdy  woodmen,  armed  with  saws,  axes,  and 
bill-hook ; to  work  they  went,  lopping,  hewing,  and  clearing, 
and  before  night-fall,  there  lay  the  little  Brook,  exposed  to 
the  broad  '‘'canopy  of  heaven,  revealed  in  all  its  littleness, 
and  effectually  relieved  from  the  '‘'intrusion  of  those  insignifi- 
cant creatures,  which  had  been  scared  from  their  old  familiar 
■‘'haunt,  by  that  day’s  '‘'ruthless  execution. 

2.  Well ! ” quoth  the  little  Brook,  “ this  is  something  like 
life.  What  a fine  world  this  is.  A little  chilly,  though,  and 
I feel,  I don’t  know  how,  quite  dazzled  and  confounded. 
But  to-morrow,  when  that  great  red  orb  comes  overhead 
again,  I shall  be  warm  and  comfortable  enough,  no  doubt; 
and  then,  I dare  say,  some  of  those  fine,  great  creatures  will 
come  and  visit  me;  and  who  knows  but  I may  grow  as  big 
as  that  great  pond,  in  time,  now  that  I enjoy  the  same  ad- 
vantages.” Down  went  the  sun;  up  rose  the  moon;  out  shone 
innumerable  hosts  of  sparkling  orbs,  and  among  them,  that 
“bright  particular  Star”  looked  out,  '‘'pre-eminent  in  luster, 
Doubtless,  its  pure  and  '‘'radiant  eye  dwelt,  with  tender  sor- 
row, on  the  altered  condition  of  its  beloved  little  Brook.  But 
that  '‘'volatile  and  inconstant  creature,  quite  intoxicated  with 
her  change  of  fortune,  and  with  the  fancied  admiration  of  the 
twinkling  myriads  she  beheld,  danced  and  dimpled,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  '‘'fiirtation,  with  every  glittering  spark,  till  she 
was  quite  bewildered  among  the  multitude  of  her  adorers, 
and  welcomed  the  gray  hour  of  dawn,  without  having  '‘'vouch* 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


396 


safed  so  much  as  one  glance  of  '^'recognition  at  her  old,  '‘'un- 
alienated friend. 

3.  Down  went  the  moon  and  stars;  up  rose  the  sun,  and 
higher  and  higher  he  mounted  in  the  cloudless  heaven,  and 
keener  ‘‘'waxed  the  impatience  of  the  ambitious  little  Brook. 
Never  did  court  beauty  so  eagerly  '‘'anticipate  her  first  pre- 
sentation to  the  eye  of  majesty  ! And,  at  last,  arrived  the  hour 
of '‘'fruition.  Bright  overhead  '‘'careered  the  radiant  orb ; down 
darted  his  fervid,  fiery  beams  '‘  vertically  upon  the  center  of 
the  little  Brook,  penetrating  its  shallow  waters  to  the  very 
pebbles  beneath.  At  first,  it  was  so  awed  and  agitated,  and 
overpowered  by  the  condescending  notice  of  majesty,  fancy- 
ing, (as  small  folks  are  apt  to  fancy,)  that  it  had  attracted 
peculiar  observation,  that  it  was  hardly  sensible  of  the  un- 
usual degree  of  warmth,  which  began  to  '‘'pervade  its  ele- 
mentary system : but  presently,  when  the  '‘'fermentation  of 
its  wits  had  a little  subsided,  it  began  to  wonder  how  much 
hotter  it  should  grow,  still  assuring  itself  that  the  sensation, 
though  very  novel,  was  exceedingly  delightful. 

4.  But  at  length,  such  an  '‘'accession  of  fever  came  on,  that 
the  self-delusion  was  no  longer  '‘'practicable,  and  it  began  to 
hiss,  as  if  set  over  a great  furnace.  Oh,  what  would  the  lit- 
tle Brook  have  given  now  for  only  one  bough  of  the  holly 
or  the  hawthorn,  to  '‘'intercept  those  '‘'intolerable  rays ! or  for 
the  gentle  winnowing  of  the  blackbird’s  wing,  or  even  the 
poor  robin’s,  to  fan  its  glowing  bosom.  But  those  protecting 
boughs  lay  scattered  around ; those  small,  shy  creatures  had 
sought  out  a distant  refuge,  and  my  lady  Brook  had  nothing 
left  but  to  endure  what  she  could  not  alter.  “ And,  after 
all,”  quoth  she,  “’tis  only  for  a little  while;  by  and  by, 
when  his  majesty  only  looks  sidewise  at  me,  I shall  be  less 
overcome  with  his  royal  favor,  and  in  time,  no  doubt,  be  able 
to  sustain  his  full  gaze,  without  any  of  these  unbecoming 
^fiutters,  all  owing  to  my  rustic  education,  and  the  confined 
life  I have  hitherto  led.” 

5.  Well,  “his  majesty”  withdrew  westward  a?i  usual,  and 
my  lady  Brook  began  to  subside  into  a comfortable  degree 
of  temperature,  and  to  gaze  about  her  again,  with  restored 
■‘'complacency.  What  was  her  exultation,  when  she  beheld 
the  whole  train  of  geese  waddling  toward  her  from  the  great 


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pond,  taking  that  way  homeward  out  of  sheer  curiosity,  as  1 
suppose.  As  the  goodly  company  drew  nearer  and  nearer, 
our  Brook  admired  the  stateliness  of  their  carriage,  and  per- 
suaded herself,  it  was  eminently  graceful,  ‘>for  undoubtedly, 
they  are  persons  of  distinguished  rank,”  quoth  she,  “and  how 
much  finer  voices  they  must  have,  than  those  little,  vulgar 
fowls,  whose  twittering  used  to  make  me  so  nervous.”  Just 
then,  the  whole  flock  sat  up  such  a gabbling  and  screeching, 
as  they  passed  close  by,  that  the  little  Brook  well  nigh  leaped^ 
out  of  her  reservoir,  with  horror  and  amazement;  and  to  com- 
plete her  "^consternation,  one  fat,  old,  dowager  goose,  strug- 
gling awkwardly  out  of  the  line  of  march,  plumped  right 
down  into  the  middle  of  the  pool,  flouncing  and  flounder- 
ing about  at  a terrible  rate,  filling  its  whole  circumference 
with  her  ungainly  person,  and  scrambling  out  again  with  an 
unfeeling  '^'precipitation,  which  cruelly  disordered  the  un- 
happy  victim  of  her  "tbarbarous  '^'outrage. 

6.  Hardly  were  they  out  of  sight,  those  awkward  and  un- 
mannerly creatures, — hardly  had  the  poor  little  Brook  begun 
to  breathe,  after  that  terrible  visitation,  when  all  her  powers 
of  self-possession  were  called  for,  by  the  abrupt  approach  of 
another  and  more  prodigious  personage.  A huge  ox,  goaded 
by  the  intolerable  stinging  of  a gadfly,  broke  away  from  his 
fellows  of  the  herd  and  from  his  cool  station  in  the  great  pond, 
and  came  galloping  down,  in  his  blind  agony,  lashing  the  air 
with  his  tail,  and  making  the  vale  echo  with  his  furious  bel- 
lowing. To  the  woods  just  beyond  the  new-cleared  spot,  he 
took  his  Hrantic  course,  and,  the  little  Brook  lying  in  his 
way,  he  splashed  into  it  and  out  of  it  without  ceremony,  or 
probably  so  much  as  heeding  the  hapless  object,  subjected 
to  his  ruffian  treatment.  That  one  splash  pretty  nearly  ■^an- 
nihilated the  miserable  little  Brook.  The  huge  fore-hoofs 
forced  themselves  into  its  mossy  bank ; the  hind  ones,  with 
a single  '^'extricating  plunge,  pounded  bank  and  Brook  together 
into  a muddy  hole ; and  the  tail,  with  one  insolent  whisk,  spat- 
tered half  the  black  mass  over  the  surrounding  herbage. 

7.  And  now,  what  was  wanting  to  complete  the  ruin  and 
degradation  of  the  unhappy  little  Brook  ? A thick,  black  pud- 
dle was  all  that  remained  of  the  once  pellucid  pooL  Poor  lit- 
tle Brook ! if  it  had  erred  greatly,  was  it  not  greatly 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


397 


Night  came  again;  but  darkness  was  on  the  face  of  the  un- 
happy  Brook,  and  well  for  it,  that  it  was  total  darkness ; for 
in  that  state  of  conscious  "^degradation,  how  could  it  have 
sustained  the  seauehing  gaze  of  its  pure,  forsaken  Star?  Long, 
dark,  and  companionless  was  the  first  night  of  misery,  and 
when  morning  dawned,  though  the  "‘'turbid  water  had  regained 
a degree  of  "‘'transparency,  it  had  shrunk  away  to  a tenth  part 
of  its  former  “ fair  proportions,”  so  much  had  it  lost  by  "‘'evap- 
oration in  that  fierce  solar  "‘'alembic ; so  much  from  "‘'absorp- 
tion in  the  loosened  and  choking  soil  of  its  once  firm  and 
beautiful  margin ; and  so  much  by  "‘'dispersion,  from  the 
wasteful  "‘'havoc  of  its  destructive  invaders. 

8.  Again,  the  great  sun  looked  down  upon  it;  again,  the 
vertical  beams  drank  fiercely  of  its  shrunken  water;  and 
when  evening  came,  no  more  remained  of  the  poor  little 
Brook,  than  just  so  many  drops  as  filled  the  hollow  of  one 
of  those  large  pebbles  which  had  paved  its  unsullied  basin, 
in  the  day  of  its  brightness  and  beauty.  But  never,  in  the 
season  of  its  brightest  "‘'plenitude,  was  the  water  of  the  little 
Brook,  so  clear,  so  perfectly  clear  and  pure,  as  that  last  por- 
tion, which  lay,  like  a liquid  gem,  in  the  small  concave  of  that 
polished  stone.  It  had  been  "‘'filtered  from  every  grosser  par- 
ticle, refined  by  rough  discipline,  purified  by  adversity,  even 
from  those  lees  of  vanity  and  light-mindedness,  which  had 
"‘'adulterated  its  sparkling  waters  in  their  prosperous  state. 
Just  as  the  last  sunbeam  was  withdrawing  its  amber  light 
from  that  small  pool,  the  old,  familiar  robin  hopped  on  the 
edge  of  the  hollow  pebble,  and  dipping  his  beak  once  and 
again  in  the  diminished  "‘'fount,  which  had  slaked  his  thirst 
so  often  and  so  long,  drooped  his  "‘'russet  wings  with  a slight 
quivering  motion,  and  broke  forth  into  a short,  sweet  gush 
of  parting  song,  before  he  winged  his  way  forever  from  his 
expiring  benefactress. 

9.  Twilight  had  melted  into  night,  dark  liight,  for  neither 
moon  nor  stars  were  visible  through  the  dark  clouds  that 
"‘'canopied  the  earth.  In  darkness  and  silence  lay  the  little 
Brook ; forgotten  it  seemed,  even  by  its  benignant  Star,  as 
though  its  last  drops  were  exhaled  into  nothingness,  its  lan- 
guishing existence  already  struck  out  of  the  list  of  created 
things.  Time  had  been,  when  such  apparent  neglect  would 


398 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


have  excited  its  highest  indignation  ; but  now^  it  submitted 
humbly  and  resignedly  to  the  deserved  infliction.  And,  after 
a little  while,  looking  flxedly  upward,  it  almost  fancied  that 
the /orm,  if  not  the  radiance  of  the  beloved  Star  was  faintly 
‘^'perceptible  through  the  '^'intervening  darkness. 

10.  The  little  Brook  was  not  deceived ; cloud  after  cloud 
rolled  away  from  the  central  heaven,  till  at  last,  the  unchang- 
ing Star  was  plainly  '^'discernible  through  the  fleecy  vapor 
which  yet  obscured  its  perfect  luster.  But,  through  that 
silvery  veil,  the  beautiful  Star  looked  intently  on  its  repent- 
ant love;  and  there  was  more  of  tenderness,  of  pity,  and  re- 
conciliation in  that  dim,  trembling  gaze,  than  if  the  pure, 
heavenly  dweller  had  shone  out  in  perfect  brightness  on  the 
frail,  humbled  creature  below.  Just  then,  a few  large  drops 
fell  heavily  from  the  disparting  cloud ; and  one,  trembling  for 
a moment  with  starry  light,  fell,  like  a forgiving  tear,  into 
the  bosom  of  the  little  pool. 

11.  Long,  long  and  undisturbed,  (for  no  other  eye  looked 
out  from  heaven  that  night,)  Was  the  last  mysterious  '*'com- 
munion  of  the  reconciled  friends.  No  doubt,  that  voiceless 
■^intercourse  was  yet  eloquent  of  hope  and  futurity ; for  though 
all  that  remained  of  the  pure  little  Brook  was  sure  to  be  ex- 
hausted by  the  next  day’s  fiery  trial,  it  would  but  change  its 
visible  form,  to  become  an  imperishable  '^'essence  : and  who  can 
tell  whether  the  elementary  nature,  so  purged  from  earthly 
'‘'impurities,  may  not  have  been  received  up  into  the  sphere 
of  its  heavenly  friend,  and  '‘'indissolubly  united  with  the  '‘'ce- 
lestial substance. 


CLVIII.— SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

From  Hood. 

1.  With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

'‘'Plying  her  needle  and  thread; 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitoh! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 

And  still  with  a voice  of  '‘'dolorous  pitch. 
She  sang  the  “Song  of  the  Shirt!  ” 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


399 


2.  “ W ork ! work ! work ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 

And  work!  work!  work! 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 

It  is  oh!  to  be  a slave 

Along  with  the  'tbarbarous  Turk, 

Where  woman  has  never  a soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work ! 

3.  “Work!  work!  work! 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim; 

Work!  work!  work! 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim! 

'*'Seam,  and  '^'gusset,  and  "tband, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Till  over  the  buttons  I fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a dream! 

4.  “O  men,  with  sisters  dear  ! 

0 men,  with  mothers  and  wives ! 

It  is  not  linen  you  ’re  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures’  lives  ! 

Stitch  ! stitch  ! stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a double  thread, 

A '^'shroud  as  well  as  a shirt. 

5.  “ But  why  do  I talk  of  Death  ? 

That  'tPhantom  of  grisly  'tbone, 

I hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape. 

It  seems  so  like  my  own; 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I keep; 

O God ! that  bread  should  be  so  dear. 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

“ Work ! work ! work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags ; 

And  what  are  its  wages?  A bed  of  straw, 
A crust  of  bread,  and  rags. 

That  shattered  roof,  and  this  naked  floor, 
A table,  a broken  chair. 

And  a wall  so  '•'blank,  my  shadow  I thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there. 


400 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


7.  “ W ork ! work ! work  ! 

From  weary  '*'chime  to  chime ! 

Work  ! work!  Avork ! 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

8.  “Work!  work!  work! 

In  the  dull  December  light, 

And  work ! work ! work ! 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright; 

While  underneath  the  eaves  ^ 

The  brooding  swallows  cling. 

As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  Avith  the  spring. 

9.  “ Oh  ! but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  '^'primrose  sweet  1 
With  the  sky  above  my  head. 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 

For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I used  to  feel, 

Before  I knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a meal; 

10.  .^‘Oh!  but  for  one  short  hour! 

A "^respite,  however  brief! 

No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 

’A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 
Hinders  needle  and  thread.” 

11.  With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  t 
Stitch  ! stitch  ! stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 

And  still  with  a voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich! 

She  sang  this  “Song  of  the  Shirt” 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


401 


CLIX.— CHATHAM  ON  THE  AMERICAN  WAR. 

1.  I CAN  NOT,  my  lords,  I will  not,  join  in  congratulation 
on  misfortune  and  disgrace.  This,  my  lords,  is  a '^perilous 
and  tremendous  moment.  It  is  not  a time  for  "^adulation  : the 
smoothness  of  flattery  can  not  save  us,  in  this  rugged  and 
awful  crisis.  It  is  now  necessary  to  instruct  the  throne  in  the 
language  of  truth.  We  must,  if  possible,  dispel  the  '‘'delusion 
and  darkness  which  '‘'envelop  it;  and  display,  in  its  full  danger 
and  genuine  colors,  the  ruin  which  is  brought  to  our  doors. 

2.  Can  Parliament  be  so  dead  to  its  true  dignity  and  duty, 

as  to  give  its  support  to  measures  thus  '‘'obtruded  and  forced 
upon  them?  Measures,  my  lords,  which  have  reduced  this  late 
flourishing  empire  to  scorn  and  contempt ! “ But  yesterday, 

and  Britain  might  have  stood  against  the  world ; now,  none 
so  poor  to  do  her  '‘'reverence.”  The  people  whom  we  first 
despised  as  rebels,  but  whom  we  now  acknowledge  as  ene- 
mies, are  '‘'abetted  against  us,  supplied  with  every  military 
store,  have  their  interest  consulted,  and  their  embassadors 
entertained  by  our  '‘'inveterate  enemy ; and  ministers  do  not, 
and  dare  not,  interpose  with  dignity  or  etfect. 

3.  The  desperate  state  of  our  army  abroad  is  in  part  known. 
No  man  more  highly  esteems  or  honors  the  British  troops, 
than  I do.  I know  their  virtues  and  their  valor.  I know  they 
can  '‘'achieve  any  thing  but  impossibilities ; and  I know  that  the 
conquest  of  British  America  is  an  impossibility.  You  can  not, 
my  lords,  you  can  not  conquer  America.  What  is  your  present 
situation  there?  We  do  not  know  the  worst;  but  we  know 
that  in  three  campaigns  we  have  done  nothing,  and  suffered 
much.  You  may  swell  every  expense,  '‘'accumulate  every  as- 
sistance, and  extend  your  traffic  to  the  '‘'shambles  of  every  Ger- 
man despot:  your  attempts  will  be  forever '‘'impotent ; doubly 
so,  indeed,  from  this  '‘'mercenary  aid  on  which  you  rely ; for  it 
irritates,  to  an  incurable  resentment,  the  minds  of  your  '‘'adver- 
saries, to  overrun  them  with  the  mercenary  sons  of  rapine  and 
plunder,  devoting  them  and  their  possessions  to  the  '‘'rapacity 
of  hireling  cruelty.  If  I were  an  American,  as  I am  an  Eng- 
lishman, while  a foreign  troop  was  landed  in  my  country,  I 
never  would  lay  down  my  arms; — never — never — never! 


402 


NEW  SIXTH  READER,. 


4.  But,  my  lords,  who  is  the  man,  that,  in  addition  to  the 
disgraces  and  mischief  of  the  war,  has  dared  to  authorize  and 
associate  to  our  arms,  the  tomo^hawk  and  scalping -knife  of  the 
savage?  to  call  into  civilized '’'alliance,  the  wild  and  inhuman 
inhabitant  of  the  woods?  to  delegate  to  the  merciless  Indian 
the  defense  of  disputed  rights,  and  to  wage  the  horrors  of  his 
barbarous  war  against  our  brethren?  My  lords,  these  '’'enor- 
mities cry  aloud  for  redress  and  punishment.  But,  my  lords, 
this  barbarous  measure  has  been  defended,  not  only  on  the 
principles  of  policy  and  necessity,  but  also  on  those  of  mor- 
ality: “for  it  is  perfectly  allowable,”  says  Lord  Suffolk,  “to 
use  all  the  means  which  Giod  and  Nature  have  put  into  our 
hands.”  I am  astonished,  L am  shocked,  to  hear  such  prin- 
ciples confessed;  to  hear  them  avowed  in  this  house,  or  in 
this  country. 

5.  My  lords,  I did  not  intend  to  '•'encroach  so  much  on 
your  attention,  but  I can  not  repress  my  indignation : I feel 
myself  '•'impelled  to  speak.  My  lords,  we  are  called  upon, 
as  members  of  this  house,  as  men,  as  Christians^  to  protest 
against  such  horrible  barbarity.  “ That  God  and  Nature  have 
put  into  our  hands!  ” What  ideas  of  God  and  Nature  that 
noble  lord  may  entertain,  I know  not;  but  I know,  that  such 
detestable*  principles  are  equally  '•'abhorrent  to  religion  and 
humanity.  What  I to  attribute  the  sacred  sanction  of  God 
and  Nature  to  the  massacres  of  the  Indian  scalping-knife  I 
to  the  cannibal  savage,  torturing,  murdering^  devouring, 
DRINKING  THE  BLOOD 'of  his  mangled  victims!  Such  notions 
shock  every  precept  of  morality,  every  feeling  of  humanity, 
every  sentiment  of  honor.  These  abominable  principles,  and 
this  more  abominable  avowal  of  them,  demand  the  most  de- 
cisive '•'indignation. 

6.  I call  upon  that  right  reverend,  and  this  most  learned 
bench,  to  vindicate  the  religion  of  their  God,  to  support  the 
justice  of  their  country.  I call  upon  the  bishops,  to  inter- 
pose their  '•'unsullied  '•'sanctity;  upon  the  judges,  to  interpose 
the  purity  of  their  '•'ermine,  to  save  us  from  this  pollution. 
I call  upon  the  honor  of  your  lordships,  to  reverence  the 
dignity  of  your  ancestors,  and  to  maintain  your  own.  I call 
upon  the  spirit  and  humanity  of  my  country,  to  vindicate 
the  national  character.  I invoke  the  Genius  of  the  Constity. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


403 


tion.  From  the  '‘'tapestry  that  adorns  these  walls,  the  immor- 
tal ancestor  of  this  noble  lord  frowns  with  indignation,  at  the 
disgrace  of  his  country.  In  vain  did  he  defend  the  liberty, 
and  establish  the  religion  of  Britain,  against  the  tyranny  of 
Borne,  if  these  worse  than  popish  cruelties,  and  '‘'inquisitorial 
practices,  are  endured  among  us.  To  send  forth  the  merciless 
■‘'cannibal,  thirsting  for  blood!  Against  whom?  Your  prot- 
estant  brethren ! — to  lay  waste  their  country,  to  desolate  their 
dwellings,  and  '‘'extirpate  their  race  and  name,  by  the  aid  and 
'‘'instrumentality  of  these  horrible  hounds  of  war. 

7.  Spain  can  no  longer  boast  '‘'pre-eminence  in  barbar- 
ity. She  armed  herself  with  blood-hounds,  to  '‘'extirpate  the 
wretched  natives  of  Mexico;  we,  more  '‘'ruthless,  loose  the 
dogs  of  war  against  our  countrymen  in  America,  endeared  to 
us  by  every  tie  that  can  '‘'sanctify  humanity.  I solemnly  call 
upon  your  lordships,  and  upon  every  order  of  men  in  the 
state,  to  stamp  upon  this  '‘'infamous  '•'procedure,  the  '•'indeli- 
ble '•'stigma  of  the  public  abhorrence.  More  particularly,  I 
call  upon  the  holy  '‘'prelates  of  our  religion,  to  do  away  this 
iniquity;  let  them  perform  a '•'lustration,  to  purify  the  coun- 
try from  this  deep  and  deadly  sin.  My  lords,  I am  old  and 
weak,  and  unable  to  say  more ; but  my  feelings  and  indigna- 
tion were  too  strong  to  have  said  less.  I could  not  have  slept 
this  night  in  my  bed,  nor  even  reposed  my  head  upon  my 
pillow,  without  giving  vent  to  my  eternal  '•'abhorrence  of 
such  enormous  and  '•'preposterous  principles. 


CLX.— SUPPOSED  SPEECH  OF  JOHN  ADAMS. 

From  Webster. 

Mr.  Webster,  in  a speech  upon  the  life  and  character  of  John 
Adams,  imagines  some  one  opposed  to  the  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence, to  have  stated  his  fears  and  objections  before  Congress,  while 
deliberating  on  that  subject.  He  then  supposes  Mr.  Adams  to  have 
replied,  in  the  following  language. 

1.  Sink  or  swim,  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I give  my 
hand  and  my  heart  to  this  vote.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  in 
the  beginning,  we  aimed  not  at  independence.  But  there  is 
a divinity  which  shapes  our  ends.  The  injustice  of  England 


404 


NEW  SIXTH  READEJl. 


has  driven  us  to  arms;  and  blinded  to  her  own  interest,  she 
has  obstinately  '^'persisted,  till  independence  is  now  within 
our  grasp.  We  have  but  to  reach  forth  to  it,  and  it  is  ours. 
Why  then  should  we  defer  the  declaration?  Is  any  man 
so  weak,  as  now  to  hope  for  a '^'reconciliation  with  England, 
which  shall  leave  either  safety  to  the  country  and  its  liber- 
ties, or  security  to  his  own  life  and  his  own  honor  ? Are 
not  you,  sir,  who  sit  in  that  chair,*  is  not  he,  our  venerable 
‘^'colleague,  near  you,f  are  you  not  both  already  the  '’'pro- 
scribed and  '’'predestined  objects  of  punishment  and  of 
'’'vengeance?  Cut  off  from  all  hope  of  royal  '’'clemency, 
what  are  you,  what  can  you  be,  while  the  power  of  Eng- 
land remains,  but  outlaw?,^ 

2.  If  we  postpone  independence,  do  we  mean  to  carry  on, 
or  to  give  up  the  war?  Do  we  mean  to  submit,  and  consent 
that  we  shall  be  ground  to  powder,  and  our  country  and  its 
rights  trodden  down  in  the  dust?  I know  do  not  mean  to 
submit.  We  never  shall  submit!  Do  we  intend  to  '’'violate 
that  most  solemn  obligation  ever  entered  into  by  men,  that 
plighting,  before  God,  of  our  sacred  honor  to  Washington, 
when,  putting  him  forth  to  incur  the  dangers  of  war,  as  well 
as  the  political  hazards  of  the  times,  we  promised  to  adhere 
to  him  in  every  extren^ity  with  our  fortunes  and  our  lives? 
I know  there  is  not  a man  here,  who  would  not  rather  see  a 
general  '’'conflagration  sweep  over  the  land,  or  an  earthquake 
sink  it,  than  one  jot  or  tittle  of  that  plighted  faith  fall  to 
the  ground.  For  myself,  having  twelve  months  ago,  in  this 
place,  moved  you,  that  George  Washington  be  appointed 
commander  of  the  forces  raised,  or  to  be  raised  for  the  de- 
fense of  American  liberty;  may  my  right  hand  forget  her 
cunning,  and  my  tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  if 
I hesitate  or  waver  in  the  support  I give  him. 

3.  The  war,  then,  must  go  on.  We  must  fight  it  through. 
And  if  the  war  must  go  on,  why  put  off  the  Declaration  of 
Independence?  That  measure  will  strengthen  us.  It  will 
give  us  character  abroad.  Nations  will  then  treat  with  us, 
which  they  never  can  do,  while  we  acknowledge  ourselves 
subjects  in  arms  against  our  sovereign.  Nay,  I maintain 


^ John  Hancock. 


t Samuef  Adams. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


405 


that  England  herself,  will  sooner  treat  for  peace  with  us,  on  the 
footing  of  independence,  than  consent,  by  repealing  her  acts, 
to  acknowledge  that  her  whole  conduct  toward  us  has  been 
a course  of  injustice  and  oppression.  Her  pride  will  be  less 
wounded  by  submitting  to  that  course  of  things,  which  now 
"’'predestinates  our  independence,  than  by  yielding  the  points 
in  "’'controversy  to  her  rebellious  subjects.  The  former,  she 
would  regard  as  the  result  of  fortune;  the  latter,  she  would 
feel  as  her  own  deep  disgrace.  Why,  then,  do  we  not  change 
this  from  a civil  to  a national  war?  And  since  we  must  fight 
it  through,  why  not  put  ourselves  in  a state  to  enjoy  all  the 
benefits  of  victory,  if  we  gain  the  victory. 

4.  If  we  fail,  it  can  be  no  worse  for  us.  But  we  shall  not 
fail.  The  cause  will  raise  up  armies;  the  cause  will  create 
navie-s.  The  people — the  people,  if  we  are  true  to  them,  will 
carry  us,  and  will  carry  themselves,  gloriously  through  this 
struggle.  I care  not  how  fickle  other  people  have  been  found. 
I know  the  people  of  these  colonies;  and  I know  that  re- 
sistance to  British  "’'aggression,  is  deep  and  settled  in  their 
hearts,  and  can  not  be  "•'eradicated.  Sir,  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  will  inspire  the  people  with  increased  courage. 
Instead  of  a long  and  bloody  war  for  the  restoration  of  priv- 
ileges, for  "’'redress  of  grievances,  for  "•'chartered  '•'immunities, 
held  under  a British  king,  set  before  them  the  glorious  ob- 
ject of  entire  independence,  and  it  will  breathe  into  them 
anew  the  spirit  of  life. 

5.  Bead  this  declaration  at  the  head  of  the  army;  every 
sword  will  be  drawn,  and  the  solemn  vow  uttered  to  main- 
tain it,  or  perish  on  the  bed  of  honor.  Publish  it  from  the 
pulpit;  religion  will  approve  it,  and  the  love  of  religious  lib- 
erty will  cling  around  it,  resolved  to  stand  with  it,  or  fall 
with  it.  Send  it  to  the  public  halls ; proclaim  it  there ; let 
them  see  it,  who  saw  their  brothers  and  their  sons  fall  on  the 
field  of  Bunker  Hill,  and  in  the  streets  of  Lexington  and  Con- 
cord, and  the  very  walls  will  cry  out  in  its  support. 

6.  Sir,  I know  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs,  but  I see, 
I see  clearly  through  this  day's  business.  You  and  I,  indeed, 
may  rue  it.  We  may  not  live  to  see  the  time  this  declaration 
shall  be  made  good.  We  may  die;  die  colonists;  die  slaves; 
die,  it  may  be,  '•'ignominiously,  and  on  the  scaffold.  Be  it  so  : 

34 


406 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


be  it  so.  ,If  it  be  the  pleasure  of  Heaven  that  my  country 
shall  require  the  poor  offering  of  my  life,  the  victim  shall  be 
ready  at  the  appointed  hour  of  sacrifice,  come  when  that  hour 
may.  But  while  I do  live,  let  me  have  a country,  or  at  least 
the  hope  of  a country,  and  that  a free  country. 

7.  But  whatever  may  be  our  fate,  be  assured — be  assured 
mat  this  declaration  wdll  stand.  It  may  cost  treasure,  and 
it  may  cost  blood ; but  it  will  stand,  and  it  will  richly  '*'com- 
pensate  for  both.  Through  the  thick  gloom  of  the  present, 
I see  the  brightness  of  the  future,  as  the  sun  in  heaven.  We 
shall  make  this  a glorious,  an  immortal  day.  When  we  are 
in  our  graves,  our  children  will  honor  it.  They  will  celebrate 
it  with  thanksgiving,  with  festivity,  with  bonfires,  and  '*'illu- 
minations.  On  its  annual  return,  they  will  shed  tears,  copi- 
ous, gushing  tears;  not  of  subjection  and  slavery,  not  of  agony 
and  distress,  but  of '^'exultation,  of  gratitude,  and  of  joy. 

8.  Sir,  before  God,  I believe  the  hour  is  come.  My  judg- 
ment approves  the  measure,  and  my  whole  heart  is  in  it.  All 
that  I have,  and  all  that  I am,  and  all  that  I hope  in  this  life, 
I am  now  ready  here  to  stake  upon  it;  and  I leave  off*  as  I 
began,  that,  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I am  for  the  decla- 
ration. It  is  my  living  sentiment,  and,  by  the  blessing  of 
God,  it  shall  be  my  dying  sentiment;  independence  and 
INDEPENDENCE  FOREVER. 


CLXI.— THE  PARTING  OF  MARMION  AND  DOUGLAS. 

From  Walter  Scott. 

In  the  poem,  from  which  this  extract  is  taken,  Marmion  is  represented 
as  an  embassador,  sent  by  Henry  YIII,  king  of  England,  to  James  IV, 
king  of  Scotland,  who  were  at  war  with  each  other.  Having  finished  his 
mission  to  James,  Marmion  was  intrusted  to  the  protection  and  hospital- 
ity of  Douglas,  one  of  the  Scottish  nobles.  Douglas  entertains  him,  treats 
him  with  the  respect  due  to  his  office  and  ic  the  honor  of  his  sovereign, 
yeth©  despises  his  private  character.  Marmion  perceives  this,  and  takes 
+umbrage  at  it,  though  he  attempts  to  repress  his  resentment,  and  desires 
to  part  in  peace.  Under  these  circumstances,  the  scene,  as  described  in 
this  sketch,  takes  place.  Tantallon  is  the  name  of  Douglas’  castle. 

1.  Not  far  advanced  was  mox-ning  day. 

When  Marmion  did  his  troop  +array, 

To  Surrey’s  camp  to  ride; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


407 


He  had  safe  ^conduct  for  his  band, 

Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand, 

And  Douglas  gave  a guide, 

2.  The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew, 

But  Marmion  stopped  to  bid  adieu : 
“Though  something  I might  plain,”  he  said, 
“Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 

Sent  hither  by  the  king’s  "^behest, 

While  in  Tantallon’s  towers  I staid; 

Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land. 
And,  noble  Earl,  receive  my  hand'' 

But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak. 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  sp(A:e : 

“My  '^manors,  halls,  and  towers  shall  still 
Be  open,  at  my  sovereign’s  will, 

To  each  one  whom  he  ‘'lists,  howe’er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner’s  peer. 

My  castles  are  my  king’s  alone. 

From  turret  to  '^foundation  stone ; 

The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own ; 

And  never  shall,  in  frienaly  grasp. 

The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp.” 

3 Burned  Marmion’ s "tswarthy  cheek  like  fire. 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  "^ire ; 

And  ^^This  to  mef  he  said, 

“An  ’twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard. 

Such  hand  as  Marmion’s  had  not  spared 
To  cleave  the  Douglas’  head ! 

And,  first,  I tell  thee,  haughty  peer. 

He,  who  does  England' s message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state. 

May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate: 

And,  Douglas,  more^  I tell  thee  here, 

Even  in  thy  ''‘pitch  of  pride, 

Here^  in  thy  hold^  thy  '•'vassals  near, 

I tell  thee,  thou'rt  defied  I 
And  if  thou  said’st,  I am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 

Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near. 

Lord  Angus,  thou — hast — lied  I" 

4,  On  the  Earl’s  cheek,  the  flush  of  rage 
O’er  came  the  ashen  hue  of  age; 


408 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Fierce  he  broke  forth;  “And  darest  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den^ 

The  Douglas  in  his  halD 
And  hopest  thou  thence  "^unscathed  to  go? 

No^  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no  ! 

Up  draw-bridge,  grooms, — what,  warder,  hoi 
Let  the  ^portcullis  fall.” 

Lord  Marmion  turned, — well  was  his  need, — 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed. 

Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung; 

The  '•'ponderous  gate  behind  him  rung: 

To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room. 

The  bars,  descending,  grazed  his  plume. 

♦ 

5.  The  steed  along  the  draw-bridge  flies, 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise : 

Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 
Along  the  smooth  lake’s  level  brim; 

And  when  lord  Marmion  reached  his  band 
He  halts,  and  turns  with  clinched  hand. 

And  shout  of  loud  '•'defiance  pours. 

And  shook  his  '•'gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

Horse!  horse!''  the  Douglas  cried,  “and  chase 
But  soon  he  reined  his  fury’s  pace : 

“A  royal  messenger  he  came. 

Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name. 

Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood ! 

Old  age  ne’er  cools  the  Douglas’  blood; 

I thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 

’Tis  pity  of  him,  too.”  he  cried  ; 

“ Bold  he  can  speak,  and  fairly  ride 
I warrant  him  a warrior  tried.” 

With  this  his  '•'mandate  he  recalls, 

And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 


CLXII.— THE  GRAVE. 

From  Irving. 

1.  The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from  which 
we  refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek  to  heal ; 
every  other  affliction,  to  forget;  but  this  wound,  we  consider 
it  a duty  to  keep  open.  This  affliction  we  cherish,  and  brood 
over  in  solitude.  Where  is  the  mother,  who  would  willingly 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


409 


forget  the  infant  that  has  perished  like  a blossom  from  her 
arms,  though  every  recollection  is  a pang?  Where  is  the 
child  that  would  willingly  forget  a tender  parent,  though 
to  remember  be  but  to  lament?  Who,  even  in  the  hour  of 
'*'agony,  would  forget  the  friend  over  whom  he  mourns? 

2.  No,  the  love  which  "^survives  the  tomb  is  one  of  the 
noblest  attributes  of  the  soul.  If  it  has  its  woes,  it  has 
likewise  its  delights ; and  when  the  overwhelming  burst  of 
grief  is  calmed  into  the  gentle  tear  of  recollection ; when  the 
sudden  "^anguish  and  the  '^convulsive  agony  over  the  present 
ruins  of  all  that  we  most  loved,  is  softened  away  into  pensive 
meditation  on  all  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveliness, 
who  would  root  out  such  a sorrow  from  the  heart?  Though 
it  may,  sometimes,  throw  a passing  cloud  over  the  bright 
hour  of  gayety,  or  spread  a deeper  sadness  over  the  hour  of 
gloom,  yet,  who  would  exchange  it  even  for  the  song  of 
pleasure,  or  the  burst  of '^revelry?  No,  there  is  a voice  from 
the  tomb  sweeter  than  song.  There  is  a remembrance  of  the 
dead  to  which  we  turn  even  from  the  charms  of  the  living. 

3.  Oh,  the  grave  ! the  grave  ! It  buries  every  error,  cov- 
ers every,  defect,  '^extinguishes  every  resentment!  From  its 
peaceful  bosom,  spring  none  but  fond  regrets  and  tender  rec- 
ollections. Who  can  look  down  upon  the  grave  even  of  an 
enemy,  and  not  feel  a '^compunctious  "^throb,  that  he  should 
have  warred  with  the  poor  handful  of  earth  that  lies  '^'molder- 
ing  before  him?  But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved — what  a 
place  for  meditation ! There  it  is,  that  we  call  up,  in  long 
review,  the  whole  history  of  virtue  and  gentleness,  and  the 
thousand  endearments  ‘‘'lavished  upon  us,  almost  unheeded 
in  the  daily  ‘‘'intercourse  of  intimacy  j there  it  is,  that  we 
dwell  upon  the  tenderness,  the  solemn,  awful  tenderness  of 
Ihe  parting  scene;  the  bed  of  death,  with  all  its  stifled  griefs, 
its  noiseless  attendance,  its  mute,  watchful  '‘'assiduities!  the 
last  testimonies  of  expiring  love ! the  feeble,  fluttering,  thrill- 
ing,— oh!  how  thrilling! — pressure  of  the  hand!  the  last  fond 
look  of  the  glazing  eye  turning  upon  us,  even  from  the 
threshold  of  existence ! the  faint,  faltering  accents,  strug- 
gling in  death  to  give  one  more  assurance  of  affection !. 

4.  Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love,  and  meditate ! 
There  settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every  past 


410 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


benefit  "^unrequited;  every  past  endearment  unregarded,  of* 
that  departed  being,  who  can  never — never — never  return 
to  be  soothed  by  thy  '•'contrition ! If  thou  art  a child,  and 
hast  ever  added  a sorrow  to  the  soul,  or  a furrow  to  the 
silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate  parent;  if  thou  art  a hus- 
band, and  hast  ever  caused  the  fond  bosom  that  ventured  its 
whole  happiness  in  thy  arms  to  doubt  one  moment  of  thy 
kindness  or  thy  truth;  if  thou  art  a friend,  and  hast  ever 
wronged,  in  thought,  or  word,  or  deed,  the  spirit  that, 
generously  confided  in  thee ; if  thou  hast  given  one  un- 
merited pang  to  that  true  heart,  which  now  lies  cold  and 
still  beneath  thy  feet;  then  be  sure  that  every  unkind  look, 
every  ungracious  word,  every  ungentle  action,  will  come 
thronging  back  upon  thy  memory,  and  knocking  '•'dolefully  at 
thy  soul;  then  be  sure  that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sorrowing 
and  repentant  on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  unheard  groan,  and 
pour  the  '•'unavailing  tear;  more  deep,  more  bitter,  because 
unheard  and  unavailing. 

5.  Then  weave  thy  '•'chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the 
beauties  of  nature  about  the  grave ; console  thy  broken  spirit, 
if  thou  canst,  with  these  tender,  yet  '•'futile  '•'tributes  of  re- 
gret; but  take  warning  by  the  bitterness  of  this,  thy  contrite 
affliction  over  the  dead,  and  henceforth,  be  more  faithful  and 
affectionate  in  the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to  the  living. 


CLXIII.—THE  PEARL-DIVER. 

From  Mrs.  Hemans. 

1.  Thou  hast  been  where  the  rocks  of  coral  grow, 

Thou  hast  fought  with  '•'eddying  waves ; 

Thy  cheek  is  pale,  and  thy  heart  beats  low, 
Thou  searcher  of  ocean’s  caves ! 

2.  Thou  hast  looked  on  the  gleaming  wealth  of  old, 

And  wrecks  where  the  brave  have  '•'striven! 
The  deep  is  a strong  and  fearful  hold,  . 

But  thou  its  bar  hast  riven! 

« 

3.  A wild  and  weary  life  is  thine, 

A wasting  task  and  lone ; 

'J'hough  ■•'treasure  grots  for  thee  may  shine, 

To  all  besides  unknown! 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


411 


4.  A weary  life ! but  a swift  decay 
Soon,  soon  shall  set  thee  free! 

Thou’rt  passing  fast  from  thy  toils  away, 

Thou  "^wrestler  with  the  sea! 

6.  In  thy  dim  eye,  on  thy  hollow  cheek, 

Well  are  the  death-signs  read ; 

Go ! for  the  pearl  in  its  cavern  seek, 

Ere  hope  and  power  be  fled. 

6.  And  bright  in  beauty’s  '’'coronal 

That  glistening  gem  shall  be; 

A star  to  all  the  '’'festive  hall — 

But  who  shall  think  on  thee‘^ 

7.  None! — as  it  gleams  from  the  queen-like  head, 

Not  one,  ’mid  throngs,  will  say, 

^‘A  life  hath  been,  like  a rain-drop,  shed 
For  that  pale,  and  quivering  ray.” 

8.  Woe  for  the  wealth  thus  dearly  bought! 

And  are  not  those  like  thee. 

Who  win  for  earth  the  gems  of  thought  ? 

O wrestler  with  the  sea  I 

9.  Down  to  the  gulfs  of  the  soul  they  go. 

Where  the  passion-fountains  burn. 

Gathering  the  jewels  far  below. 

From  many  a buried  urn : 

10.  Wringing  from  '’'lava-veins  the  fire 

That  o’er  bright  words  is  poured; 

Learning  deep  sounds,  to  make  the  lyre 
A spirit  in  each  chord 

11.  But  O,  the  price  of  bitter  tears, 

Paid  for  the  lonely  power, 

That  throws  at  last,  o’er  desert  years, 

A darkly  glorious  dower! 

12.  Like  flower-seeds  by  the  wild  wind  spread, 

So  '‘'radiant  thoughts  are  strewed; 

The  soul  whence  those  high  gifts  are  shed. 
May  faint  in  ’'solitude ! 

13.  And  who  will  think,  when  the  strain  is  sung, 

Till  a thousand  hearts  are  stirred, 

What  life-drops  from  the  '’'minstrel  wrung. 
Have  gushed  with  every  word? 


412 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


14.  None,  none! — his  treasures  live  like  thine, 

He  strives  and  dies  like  thee; 

Thou  that  hast  been  to  the  pearl’s  dark  shrine, 
O wrestler  with  the  seal 


CLXIV.— ANECDOTE  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  NEWCASTLE. 

A LAUGHABLE  story  was  circulated  during  the  administration  of  the 
old  Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  “tretailed  to  the  public  in  various  forms. 
This  nobleman,  with  many  good  points,  was  remarkable  for  being  tpro- 
fuse  of  his  promises  on  all  occasions,  and  valued  himself  particularly, 
on  being  able  to  ‘’'anticipate  the  words  or  the  wants  of  the  various 
persons  who  attended  his  levees,  before  they  uttered  a word.  This 
sometimes  led  him  into  ridiculous  ‘’‘embarrassments;  and  it  was  this 
proneness  to  lavish  promises,  which  gave  occasion  for  the  following 
anecdote. 

1.  At  the  election  of  a certain  '^borough  in  Cornwall, 
where  the  opposite  interests  were  almost  equally  '^'poised,  a 
single  vote  "was  of  the  highest  importance.  This  object,  the 
Duke  by  well  applied  argument  and  personal  application,  at 
length  attained;  and  the  gentleman  he  recommended,  gained 
the  election.  In  the  warmth  of  gratitude,  his  grace  poured 
forth  acknowledgments  and  promises  without  ceasing,  on  the 
fortunate  pussessor  of  the  casting  vote;  called  him  his  best 
and  dearest  friend ; protested,  that  he  should  consider  him- 
self as  forever  indebted  to  him;  that  he  would  ^serve  him  by 
night  or  by  day. 

2.  The  Cornish  voter,  who  was  an  honest  fellow,  and  would 
not  have  thought  himself  entitled  to  any  reward^  but  for  such 
a '‘'torrent  of  acknowledgments,  thanked  the  Duke  for  his  kind- 
ness, and  told  him,  The  '‘'supervisor  of  ‘'excise  was  old  and 
infirm,  and  if  he  would  have  the  goodness  to  recommend  his 
son-in-law  to  the  commissioners,  in  case  of  the  old  man’^ 
death,  he  should  think  himself  and  his  family  bound  to  ren  < 
der  his  grace  every  assistance  in  his  power,  on  any  future  oc- 
casion.” My  dear  friend,  why  do  you  ask  for  such  a trifling 
employment?”  exclaimed  his  grace  ; your  relative  shall  have 
it,  the  moment  the  place  is  vacant,  if  you  will  but  call  my 
attention  to  it.”  “But  how  shall  I get. admitted  to  you,  my 
lord?  for  in  London,  I understand,  it  is  a very  difficult  busi- 
ness to  get  a sight  of  you  great  folks,  though  you  so  kind 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


413 


and  '‘'complaisant  to  us  in  the  country.”  “The  instant  the 
man  dies,”  replied  the  Duke,  “set  out  post-haste  for  Lon- 
don ; drive  directly  to  my  house,  and  he  it  by  night  or  by 
day,  thunder  at  the  door ; I will  leave  word  with  my  porter, 
to  show  you  up  stairs  directly;  and  the  employment  shall  be 
disposed  of  according  to  your  wishes.” 

3.  The  parties  separated ; the  Duke  drove  to  a friend’s 
house  in  the  neighborhood,  without  a wish  or  desire  to  see 
his  new  acquaintance  till  that  day  seven  years ; but  the 
memory  of  a Cornish  elector,  not  being  burdened  with  such 
a variety  of  objects,  was  more '‘'retentive.  The  supervisor  died 
a few  months  after,  and  the  Duke’s  humble  friend,  relying  on 
the  word  of  a peer,  was  conveyed  to  London  post-haste,  and 
ascended  with  alacrity  the  steps  of  that  nobleman’s  palace. 

4.  The  reader  should  be  informed,  that  just  at  this  time,  no 
less  a person  than  the  king  of  Spain  was  expected  hourly  to 
depart ; an  event  in  which  the  minister  of  Great  Britain  was 
particularly  concerned ; and  the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  on  the 
very  night  that  the  proprietor  of  the  decisive  vote  arrived 
at  his  door,  had  sat  up  anxiously  expecting  '‘'dispatches  from 
Madrid.  Wearied  by  official  business  and  agitated  spirits,  he 
retired  to  rest,  having  previously  given  particular  instructions 
to  his  porter  not  to  go  to  bed,  as  he  expected,  every  minute,  a 
messenger  with  advices  of  the  greatest  importance,  and  desired 
he  might  be  shown  up  stairs,  the  moment  of  his  arrival. 

5.  His  grace  was  sound  asleep ; and  the  '‘'porter,  settled 
for  the  night,  in  his  arm-chair,  had  already  commenced  a 
■‘'sonorous  nap,  when  the  vigorous  arm  of  the  Cornish  voter 
roused  him  from  his  slumbers.  To  his  first  question,  “ Is 
the  Duke  at  home?”  the  porter  replied,  “Yes,  and  in  bed; 
but  has  left  particular  orders,  that  come  when  you  will,  you 
are  to  go  up  to  him  directly.”  “Bless  him,  for  a worthy 
and  honest  gentleman,”  cried  our  applicant  for  the  vax^ant 
post,  smiling  and  nodding  with  '‘'approbation,  at  the  prime 
minister’s  kindness,  “how  punctual  his  grace  is;  I knew  he 
would  not  deceive  me;  let  me  hear  no  more  of  lords  and 
dukes  not  keeping  their  words ; I verily  believe  they  are  as 
honest,  and  mean  as  well  as  any  other  folks.”  Having 
ascended  the  stairs  as  he  was  speaking,  he  was  ushered  into 
the  Duke’s  bed-chamber. 

35 


414 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


6.  “Is  he  dead?”  exclaimed  his  grace,  rubbing  his  eye^, 
and  scarcely  awakened  from  dreaming  of  the  king  of  Spain, 
“Is  he  dead?”  “ Yes,  my  lord,”  replied  the  eager  expectant, 
delighted  to  find  the  election  promise,  with  ail  its  circum- 
stances, so  fresh  in  the  nobleman’s  memory.  “ When  did  he 
die?”  “The  day  before  yesterday,  exactly  at  half  past  one 
o’clock,  after  being  confined  three  weeks  to  his  bed,  and  tak- 
ing a power  of  doctor  s stuff;  and  I hope  your  grace  will  be  as 
good  as  your  word,  and  let  my  son-in-law  succeed  him.” 

7.  The  Duke,  by  this  time  perfeetly  awake,  was  staggered 
at  the  impossibility  of  receiving  intelligence  from  Madrid  in 
so  short  a space  of  time ; and  perplexed  at  the  ’'absurdity  of 
a king’s  messenger  applying  for  his  son-in-law  to  succeed 
the  king  of  Spain:  “Is  the  man  drunk,  or  mad?  Where  are 
your  '♦'dispatches!  ” exclaimed  his  grace,  hastily  drawing  back 
his  curtain;  where,  instead  of  a royal  courier,  his  eager  eye 
recognized  at  the  bedside,  the  well-known  countenance  of  his 
friend  from  Cornwall,  making  low  bow^s,  with  hat  in  hand, 
and  “hoping  my  lord  would  not  forget  the  gracious  promise 
he  was  so  good  as  to  make,  in  favor  of  his  son-in-law,  at  the 
last  election.” 

8.  Vexed  at  so  untimely  a disturbance,  and  disappointed 
of  news  from  Spain,  the  Duke  frowned  for  a moment;  but 
'♦'chagrin  soon  gave  way  to  mirth,  at  so  singular  and  ridicu- 
lous a '♦'combination  of  circumstances,  and  yielding  to  the 
impulse,  he  sunk  upon  the  bed  in  a violent  fit  of  laughter, 
which  was  communicated  in  a moment  to  the  attendants. 

9.  The  relater  of  this  little  narrative,  concludes,  with  ob- 
serving, “ Although  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  could  not  place 
the  relative  of  his  old  acquaintance  on  the  throne  of  His 
Catholic  Majesty,  he  advanced  him  to  a post  not  less  honor- 
ahle^ — he  made  him  an  '•'exciseman.” 


CLXV.— LOCHINVAR. 

From  Scott. 

1.  Oh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 

Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weapon  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone ! 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


415 


So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  '’’dauntless  in  war, 

There  never  was  knight  like  young  Lochinvar ! 

2.  He  staid  not  for  ''  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  '’’ford  there  was  none ; 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late*. 

For  a '’’laggard  in  love,  and  a dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar  ’ 

3.  So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  hall, 

Among  brides-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers^  and  all ! 

Then  spoke  the  bride’s  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword-- 
For  the  poor  ’’’craven  bridegroom  said  never  a word — - 
^‘0  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war. 

Or  to  dance  at  our  ’’’bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?’“ 

4.  long  ’’’wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied; 

Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  '’’ebbs  like  its  tide! 

And  now,  am  I come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine. 

To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine ! 

There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far. 

That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  young  Lochinvar.” 

5.  The  bride  kissed  the  goblet;  the  knight  took  it  up^ 

He  quaffed  off  the  w'ne,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 

She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 

With  a smile  on  her  lips,  and  a tear  in  her  eye. 

He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  '’’bar, 

“Now  tread  we  a measure!  ” said  young  Lochinvar. 

6.  So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 

That  never  a hall  such  a ’’’galliard  did  grace; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume. 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plnme; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  “’T  were  better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar.” 

T.  One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear. 

When  they  reached  the  hall  door,  and  the  '’’charger  stood  nea»; 
So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung! 

“She  is  won!  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  ’’’scaur; 
They’ll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,”  quoth  young  Lochinvar, 

8.  There  was  mounting  ’mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  ’’’clan ; 
Fosters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran; 


416 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne’er  did  they  see! 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

Have  ye  e’er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 


CLXVI.—SPEECH  ON  THE  TRIAL  OF  A MURDERER. 

From  Webster. 

1.  Against  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  as  an  individual,  I 
can  not  have  the  slightest  prejudice.  I would  not  do  him  the 
smallest  injury  or  injustice.  But  I do  not  affect  to  be  indif- 
ferent to  the  discovery  and  the  punishment  of  this  deep  guilt. 
I cheerfully  share  in  the  '^'opprobrium,  how  much  soever  it  may 
be,  which  is  cast  on  those  who  feel  and  manifest  an  anxious  con- 
cern, that  all  who  had  a part  in  planning,  or  a hand  in  execut- 
ing this  deed  of  midnight  '‘'assassination,  may  be  brought  to 
answer  for  their  '‘'enormous  crime  at  the  bar  of  public  justice. 

2.  This  is  a most  '‘'extraordinary  case.  In  some  respects  it 
has  hardly  a '‘'precedent  anywhere ; certainly  none  in  our  New 
England  history.  This  bloody  '‘'drama  exhibited  no  suddenly 
excited,  ungovernable  rage.  The  actors  in  it  were  not  sur- 
prised by  any  lion-like  temptation  upon  their  virtue,  over- 
coming it  before  resistance  could  begin.  Nor  did  they  do 
the  deed  to  '’'glut  savage  vengeance,  or  '‘'satiate  long-settled 
and  deadly  hate.  It  was  a cool,  calculating,  money-making 
murder.  It  was  all  “hire  and  salary,  and  not  revenge.”  It 
was  the  weighing  of  money  against  life  • the  counting  out  of 
so  many  pieces  of  silver  against  so  many  ounces  of  blood. 

■ 3.  An  aged  man,  without  an  enemy  in  the  world,  in  his 
own  house,  and  in  his  own  bed,  is  made  the  victim  of  butch- 
erly murder  for  mere  pay.  Truly,  here  is  a new  lesson  for 
painters  and  poets.  Whoever  shall  hereafter  draw  the  por- 
trait of  murder,  if  he  will  show  it,  as  it  has  been  exhibited 
in  an  example,  where  such  example  was  least  to  have  been 
looked  for,  in  the  very  bosom  of  our  New  England  society, 
let  him  not  give  it  the  '‘'grim  '‘'visage  of  '‘'Moloch,  the  brow 
knitted  by  revenge,  the  face  black  with  settled  hate,  and  the 
blood-shot  eye  '‘'emitting  '‘'livid  fires  of  malice ; let  him  draw, 
rather,  a decorous,  smooth-faced,  bloodless  '‘'demon ; a picture 
in  repose,  rather  than  in  action ; not  so  much  an  example  of 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


417 


iiuman  nature  in  its  depravity  and  in  its  '♦'paroxysm  of  crime, 
as  an  '♦'infernal  nature,  a fiend  in  the  ordinary  display  and 
♦'development  of  his  character. 

4.  The  deed  was  executed  with  a degree  of  self-possession 
and  steadiness,  equal  to  the  wickedness  with  which  it  was 
planned.  The  circumstances  now  clearly  in  evidence,  spread 
out  the  whole  scene  before  us.  Deep  sleep  had  fallen  on  the 
^destined  victim,  and  on  all  beneath  his  roof.  A healthful 
old  man,  to  whom  sleep  was  sweet ; the  first  sound  slumbers 
of  the  night  held  him  in  their  soft  but  strong  embrace.  The 
'♦'assassin  enters  through  the  window,  already  prepared,  into 
an  unoccupied  apartment.  With  noiseless  foot  he  paces  the 
lonely  hall,  half-lighted  by  the  moon ; he  winds  up  the  ascent 
of  the  stairs,  and  reaches  the  door  of  the  chamber.  Of  this, 
he  moves  the  lock,  by  soft  and  continued  pressure,  till  it  turns 
on  its  hinges ; and  he  enters,  and  beholds  his  victim  before 
him  The  room  was  uncommonly  open  to  the  admission  of 
light.  The  face  of  the  innocent  sleeper  was  turned  from  the 
murderer,  and  the  beams  of  the  moon,  resting  on  the  gray 
locks  of  his  aged  temple,  showed  him  where  to  strike.  The 
fatal  blow  is  given ! and  the  victim  passes  without  a struggle 
or  a motion,  from  the  repose  of  sleep  to  the  repose  of  death  ! 

5.  It  is  the  assassin’s  purpose  to  make  sure  work ; and  he 
yet  '♦'plies  the  dagger,  though  it  was  obvious  that  life  had 
been  destroyed  by  the  blow  of  the  '♦'bludgeon.  He  even 
raises  the  aged  arm,  that  he  may  not  fail  in  his  aim  at  the 
heart;  and  replaces  it  again  over  the  wounas  of  the  '♦'poniard! 
To  finish  the  picture,  he  explores  the  wrist  Tor  the  pulse ! He 
feels  it,  and  ascertains  that  it  beats  no  longer ! It  is  accom- 
plished. The  deed  is  done.  He  retreats^  retraces  his  steps 
to  the  window,  passes  out  through  it  as  he  came  in,  and 
escapes.  He  has  done  the  murder;  no  eye  has  seen  him,  no 
ear  has  heard  him.  The  secret  is  his  own,  and  it  is  safe  I 

6.  Ah ! gentlemen,  that  was  a dreadful  mistake.  Such  a 
secret  can  be  safe  nowhere.  The  whole  creation  of  God  has 
neither  nook  nor  corner,  where  the  guilty  can  bestow  it,  and 
say  it  is  safe.  Not  to  speak  of  that  eye  which  glances  through 
all  disguises,  and  beholds  every  thing  as  m the  splendor  of 
noon ; such  secrets  of  guilt  are  never  safe  from  detection, 
even  by  men.  True  it  is,  generally  speaking,  that  “ murder 


418 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


will  out.”  True  it  is,  that  Providence  hath  so  '’’ordained, 
and  doth  so  govern  things,  that  those  who  break  the  great 
law  of  Heaven,  by  shedding  men’s  blood,  seldom  succeed  in 
avoiding  discovery.  Especially,  in  a case  exciting  so  much 
attention  as  this,  discovery  must  come,  and  will  come,  sooner 
or  later.  A thousand  eyes  turn  at  once  to  explore  every  man, 
every  thing,  every  circumstance  connected  with  the  time  and 
place;  a thousand  ears  catch  every  whisper;  a thousand  ex- 
cited minds  '’  intensely  dwell  on  the  scene,  shedding  all  their 
light,  and  ready  to  kindle,  at  the  slightest  circumstance,  into 
a blaze  of  discovery. 

7.  Meantime,  the  guilty  soul  can  not  keep  its  own  secret. 
It  is  false  to  itself  or  rather  it  feels  an  '’’irresistible  '’’impulse 
to  be  true  to  itself.  It  labors  under  its  guilty  possession,  and 
knows  not  what  to  do  with  it.  The  human  heart  was  not 
made  for  the  residence  of  such  an  inhabitant.  It  finds  itself 
preyed  on  by  a torment,  which  it  does  not  acknowled^g^e  to 
Grod  nor  man.  A vulture  is  devouring  it,  and  it  can  ask  no 
sympathy  nor  assistance,  either  from  heaven  or  earth.  The 
secret  which  the  murderer  possesses,  soon  comes  to  possess 
him ; and  like  the  evil  spirits  of  which  we  read,  it  overcomes 
him,  and  leads  him  whithersoever  it  will.  He  feels  it  beating 
at  his  heart,  rising  to  his  throat,  and  demanding  '’’disclosure. 
He  thinks  the  whole  world  sees  it  in  his  face,  reads  it  in  his 
eyes,  and  almost  hears  its  workings  in  the  very  silence  of  his 
thoughts.  It  has  become  his  master.  It  betrays  his  discre- 
tion, it  breaks  down  his  courage,  it  conquers  his  prudence. 
When  suspicions  from  without  begin  to  '’’embarrass  him,  and 
the  net  of  circumstances  to  entangle  him,  the  fatal  secret 
struggles  with  still  greater  violence  to  burst  forth.  It 
be  confessed,  it  will  be  confessed;  there  is  no  refuge  from 
confession  but  suicide,  and  suicide  is  confession. 


CLXVIL— FALL  OF  CARDINAL  WOLSEY. 

From  Shakspeare. 

Wolsey.  Farewell  ! long  farewell,  to  all  my  greatness 
This  is  the  state  of  man : to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hope;  to-morrow,  blossoms, 

And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


419 


The  third  day,  comes  a frost,  a killing  frost, 

And,  when  he  thinks,  good,  easy  man,  full  surely 
Hio  greatness  is  a ripening,  '*'nips  his  root, 

And  then  he  falls,  as  I do.  I have  ventured. 

Like  little,  Avanton  hoys  that  swim  on  bladders. 

These  many  summers  in  a sea  of  glory. 

But  far  beyond  my  depth ; my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me,  and  now  has  left  me, 

Weary,  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a rude  stream,  that  must  forever  hide  me. 

V^ain  +pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I hate  ye; 

I feel  my  heart  new  opened.  0,  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes’  ^favors ! 

There  are  betwixt  that  smile  we  would  aspire  to, 

That  "taspect  sweet  of  princes,  and  their  ruin. 

More  pangs  and  fears  than  wars  or  women  have: 

And  when  he  falls,  he  falls  like  ^Lucifer, 

Never  to  hope  again. 

Enter  Cromwell  amazedly. 

Why,  how  now,  Cromwell ! 

Crom.  I have  no  power  to  speak,  sir. 

Wol  What,  "tamazed 

At  my  misfortunes?  Can  thy  spirit  wonder, 

A great  man  should  decline  ? Nay,  if  you  weep, 

I am  fallen  indeed. 

Crom.  How  does  your  grace  ? 

Wbl  Why,  well ; 

Never  so  truly  happy,  my  good  Cromwell. 

I know  myself  now;  and  I feel  within  me 
A peace  above  all  earthly  '^'dignities, 

A still  and  quiet  conscience.  The  king  has  cured  me, 

I humbly  thank  his  grace ; and  from  these  shoulders, 

These  ruined  pillars,  out  of  pity,  taken 
A load  would  sink  a navy, — too  much  honor : 

O,  ’tis  a burden,  Cromwell,  ’tis  a burden. 

Too  heavy  for  a man  that  hopes  for  heaven! 

Crom.  I am  glad  your  grace  has  made  that  right  use  of  it. 
Wol.  I hope  I have.  I am  able  now,  methinks, 

Out  of  a ^fortitude  of  soul  I feel. 

To  endure  more  miseries,  and  greater  far. 

Than  my  weak-hearted  enemies  dare  offer. 

What  news  abroad  ? 

Grom.  The  heaviest,  and  the  worst. 

Is  your  displeasure*  with  the  king. 


Here  used  for 


429 


NEW  SIXTH  HEADER. 


Wol.  God  bless  him ! 

Crom.  The  next  is,  that  Sir  Thomas  More  is  chosea 
Lord  Chancellor  in  your  place. 

Wol.  That’s  somewhat  sudden: 

But  he ’s  a learned  man.  May  he  continue 
Long  in  his  highness’  favor,  and  do  justice 
For  truth’s  sake,  and  his  conscience;  that  his  bones, 

When  he  has  run  his  course,  and  sleeps  in  blessings, 

May  have  a tomb  of  orphans’  tears  wept  on  ’em! 

What  more  ? 

Crom.  That  Cranmer  is  returned  with  welcome, 
installed  Lord  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

Wol.  That’s  news  indeed! 

Orom.  Last,  that  the  Lady  Anne, 

Whom  the  king  hath  in  secrecy  long  married, 

This  day  was  viewed  in  public  as  his  queen, 

Going  to  chapel;  and  the  voice  is  now 
Only  about  her  '•'coronation . 

Wol.  There  was  the  weight  that  pulled  me  down . O Cromwell, 
The  king  has  gone  beyond  me ; all  my  glories 
In  that  one  woman  I have  lost  forever: 

No  sun  shall  ever  '•'usher  forth  mine  honors, 

Or  gild  again  the  noble  troops  that  waited 
Upon  my  smiles.  Go,  get  thee  from  me,  Cromwell; 

I am  a poor,  fallen  man,  unworthy  now 
To  be  thy  lord  and  master.  Seek  the  king; 

That  sun,  I pray,  may  never  set ! I have  told  him 
What  and  how  true  thou  art;  he  will  advance  thee; 

Some  little  memory  of  me  will  stir  him — 

I know  his  noble  nature — not  to  let 

Thy  hopeful  service  perish,  too.  Good  Cromwell, 

Neglect  him  not;  make  use  now,  and  provide 
For  thine  own  future  safety. 

Crom.  0 my  lord. 

Must  I,  then,  leave  you  ? Must  I needs  forego 
So  good,  so  noble,  and  so  true  a master  ? 

Bear  witness,  all  that  have  not  hearts  of  iron, 

With  what  a sorrow  Cromwell  leaves  his  lord. 

The  king  shall  have  my  service,  but  my  prayers 
Forever  and  forever  shall  be  yours. 

Wol.  Cromwell,  I did  not  think  to  shed  a tear 
In  all  my  miseries;  but  thou  hast  forced  me. 

Out  of  thy  honest  truth,  to  play  the  woman. 

Let’s  dry  our  eyes:  and  thus  far  hear  me,  Cromwell; 

And,  when  I am  forgotten,  as  I shall  be. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


421 


And  sleep  in  dull,  cold  marble,  where  no  mention 
Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of,  say,  I taught  thee, 

Say,  Wolsey,  that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory. 

And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  ^shoals  of  honor, 

Found  thee  a way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in ; 

A sure  and  safe  one,  though  thy  master  missed  it, 

Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruined  me. 

Cromwell,  I charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition ; 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels ; how  can  man,  then, 

The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  win  by  it  ? 

Love  thyself  last;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  thee', 
■tCorruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty. 

Still  in  thy  right-hand  carry  gentle  peace. 

To  silence  envious  tongues.  Be  just,  and  fear  not; 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim’st  at  be  thy  country’s. 

Thy  God’s,  and  truth’s;  then,  if  thou  fall’st,  O Cromwell, 
Thou  fall’st  a blessed  martyr!  Serve  the  king; 

And, — prithee,  lead  me  in . 

There,  take  an  ^inventory  of  all  I have. 

To  the  last  penny;  ’tis  the  king’s:  my  robe. 

And  my  integrity  to  Heaven,  is  all 
I dare  now  call  my  own.  0 Cromwell,  Cromwell  I 
Had  I but  served  my  God  with  half  the  zeal 
I served  my  King,  He  wouldnot,  in  mine  age 
Have  left  me  naked  to  mine  enemies. 

Crom.  Good  sir,  have  patience. 

Wol.  So  I have.  Farewell 
The  hopes  of  court!  my  hopes  in  heaven  do  dwell. 


CLXVIII.--^OBSERVANCE  OP  THE  SABBATH. 

From  Hr.  Spring. 

1.  The  Sabbath  lies  at  the  foundation  of  all  true  morality 
’^Morality  flows  from  principle.  Let  the  principles  of  moral 
■^obligation  become  "^relaxed,  and  the  practice  of  morality  will 
not  long  survive  the  overthrow.  No  man  can  preserve  his  own 
morals,  no  parent  can  preserve  the  morals  of  his  children,  with- 
out the  impressions  of  religious  obligation. 

2.  If  you  can  induce  a '‘'community  to  doubt  the  genuine- 
ness and  '•'authenticity  of  the  Scriptures ; to  question  the  re- 
ality and  obligations  of  religion ; to  hesitate,  undeciding, 


422 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


whether  there  be  any  such  thing  as  virtue  or  vice;  whether 
there  be  an  eternal  state  of  retribution  beyond  the  grave;  or 
whether  there  exists  any  such  being  as  Grod,  you  have  broken 
down  the  '^'barriers  of  moral  virtue,  and  hoisted  the  flood- 
gates of  immorality  and  crime.  I need  not  say,  that  when 
a people  have  once  done  this,  they  can  no  longer  exist  as  a 
tranquil  and  happy  people.  Every  bond  that  holds  society 
together  would  be  ruptured ; fraud  and  treachery  would  take 
the  place  of  confidence  between  man  and  man  ; the  "^tribunals 
of  justice  would  be  scenes  of  bribery  and  injustice;  avarice, 
'•'perjury,  ambition,  and  revenge  would  walk  through  the  land, 
and  render  it  more  like  the  dwelling  of  savage  beasts,  than 
the  tranquil  abode  of  civilized  and  christianized  men. 

3.  If  there  is  an  institution  which  opposes  itself  to  this 
progress  of  human  '•'degeneracy,  and  throws  a shield  before 
the  interests  of  moral  virtue  in  our  thoughtless  and  wayward 
world,  it  is  the  Sabbath.  In  the  fearful  struggle  between  vir- 
tue and  vice,  notwithstanding  the  powerful  auxiliaries  which 
wickedness  finds  in  the  bosoms  of  men,  and  in  the  '•'seduc- 
tions and  influence  of  popular  example,  wherever  the  Sab- 
bath has  been  suffered  to  live,  the  trembling  interests  of 
moral  virtue  have  always  been  revered  and  sustained.  One 
of  the  principal  occupations  of  this  day,  is  to  illustrate  and 
enforce  the*  great  principles  of  sound  morality.  Where  this 
sacred  trust  is  preserved  '•'inviolate,  you  behold  a nation  '•'con- 
vened one  day  in  seven,  for  the  purpose  of  acquainting  them- 
selves with  the  best  moral  principles  and  precepts ; and  it 
can  not  be  otherwise,  than  that  the  authority  of  moral  virtue, 
under  such  auspices,  should  be  acknowledged  and  felt. 

4.  We  may  not,  at  once,  perceive  the  effects  which  this 
weekly  observance  produces.  Like  most  moral  causes,  it  op- 
erates slowly;  but  it  operates  surely,  and  gradually  weakens 
the  power,  and  breaks  the  yoke  of  profligacy  and  sin.  No 
villain  regards  the  Sabbath.  No  vicious  family  regards  the 
Sabbath.  No  immoral  community  regards  the  Sabbath.  The 
holy  rest  of  this  ever-memorable  day,  is  a barrier  which  is 
always  broken  down,  before  men  become  giants  in  sin.  Black- 
stone,  in  his  Commentaries  on  the  Laws  of  England,  remarks, 
that  “ a corruption  of  morals  usually  follows  a profanation 
of  the  Sabbath.”  It  is  an  observation  of  Lord  Chief  Justice 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


423 


Hale,  that  of  all  the  persons  who  were  convicted  of  cap- 
ital crimes,  while  he  was  on  the  bench,  he  found  a few  only, 
who  would  not  confess  that  they  began  their  "^career  of  wick- 
edness by  a neglect  of  the  duties  of  the  Sabbath,  and  vicious 
conduct  on  that  day.” 

5.  The  prisons  in  our  own  land  could  probably  tell  us, 
that  they  have  scarcely  a solitary  tenant,  who  had  not  broken 
over  the  restraints  of  the  Sabbath,  before  he  was  abandoned 
to  crime.  You  may  '^'enact  laws  for  the  suppression  of  immor- 
ality; but  the  secret  and  silent  power  of  the  Sabbath  consti- 
tutes a stronger  shield  to  the  vital  interest  of  the  community, 
than  any  code  of  '*'penal  statutes  that  ever  was  enacted.  The 
Sabbath  is  the  key-stone  of  the  arch  which  sustains  the  tem- 
ple of  virtue,  which,  however  "^defaced,  will  survive  many  a 
rude  shock,  so  long  as  the  foundation  remains  firm. 

6.  The  observance  of  the  Sabbath  is,  also,  most  influential 
in  securing  national  prosperity.  The  Grod  of  Heaven  has 
said,  “Them  that  honor  me,  will  I honor.”  You  will  not 
often  find  a notorious  Sabbath-breaker  a permanently  pros- 
perous man ; and  a Sabbath-breaking  community  is  never  a 
happy  or  prosperous  community.  There  are  a multitude  of 
unobserved  iofluences,  which  the  Sabbath  e;xerts  upon  the 
temporal  welfare  of  men.  It  promotes  the  spirit  of  good 
order  and  harmony;  it  elevates  the  poor  from  want;  it 
'^'transforms  squalid  wretchedness;  it  imparts  self-respect 
and  elevation  of  character;  it  promotes  softness  and  civility 
of  manners;  it  brings  together  the  rich  and  the  poor,  upon 
one  common  level,  in  the  house  of  prayer;  it  purifies  and 
strengthens  the  social  affections,  and  makes  the  family  circle 
the  center  of  '^'allurement,  and  the  source  of  instruction,  com- 
fort, and  happiness.  Like  its  own  divine  religion,  “ it  has 
the  promise  of  the  life  that  now  is,  and  that  which  is  to 
come,”  for  men  can  not  put  themselves  beyond  the  reach 
of  hope  and  heaven,  so  long  as  they  treasure  up  this  one 
command,  “Remember  the  Sabbath-day,  to  keep  it  holy.” 


424 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


CLXIX.— GOD’S  GOODNESS  TO  SUCH  AS  FEAR  HIM. 

1.  Fret  not  thyself  because  of  evil-doers, 

Neither  be  thou  envious  against  the  workers  of  iniquity ; 

For  they  shall  be  cut  down  like  the  grass, 

And  wither  as  thd  green  herb. 

Trust  in  the  Lord  and  do  good ; 

So  shalt  thou  dwell  in  the  land,  and  "^verily  thou  shalt  be  fed. 
Delight  thyself,  also,  in  the  Lord, 

And  He  shall  give  thee  the  desires  of  thy  heart. 

Commit  thy  way  unto  the  Lord  ; 

Trust  also  in  Him,  and  He  shall  bring  it  to  pass. 

And  He  snail  bring  forth  thy  righteousness  as  the  light, 

And  thy  judgment  as  the  noonday. 

Rest  in  the  Lord,  and  wait  patiently  for  Him. 

2.  Fret  not  thyself  because  of  him  who  prospereth  in  his  way, 
Because  of  the  man  who  bringeth  wicked  "^devices  to  pass. 

Cease  from  anger  and  forsake  wrath; 

Fret  not  thyself,  in  any  wise,  to  do  evil. 

For  evil-doers  shall  be  cut  off ; 

But  those  that  wait  upon  the  Lord,  they  shall  inherit  the  earth.  ' 
For  yet  a little  while,  and  the  wdcked  shall  not  be; 

Yea,  thou  shalt  diligently  consider  his  place,  and  it  shall  not  be. 
But  the  meek  shall  inherit  the  earth, 

And  shall  delight  themselves  in  the  abundance  of  peace. 

3.  A little,  that  a righteous  man  hath. 

Is  better  than  the  riches  of  many  wicked ; 

For  the  arms  of  the  wicked  shall  be  broken, 

But  the  Lord  upholdeth  the  righteous. 

The  Lord  knoweth  the  days  of  the  upright. 

And  their  inheritance  shall  be  forever; 

They  shall  not  be  ashamed  in  the  evil  time; 

And  in  the  days  of  famine  they  shall  be  satisfied. 

4.  The  steps  of  a good  man  are  ordered  by  the  Lord, 

And  he  delighteth  in  his  way ; 

Though  he  fall,  he  shall  not  be  utterly  cast  down. 

For  the  Lord  upholdeth  him  with  his  hand. 

-But  the  wicked  shall  perish, 

And  the  enemies  of  the  Lord  shall  be  as  the  fat  of  lambs, 

They  shall  consume;  into  smoke  shall  they  consume  away. 

The  wicked  borroweth  and  payeth  not  again ; 

But  the  righteous  sheweth  mercy  and  giveth. 

For  such  as  are  blessed  of  him  shall  inherit  the  earth. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


425 


5.  I have  been  young,  and  now  am  old, 

Yet  have  I not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken, 
Nor  his  seed  begging  bread. 

He  is  ever  merciful  and  lendeth. 

And  his  seed  is  blessed. 

6.  Depart  from  evil  and  do  good, 

And  dwell  for  evermore; 

For  the  Lord  loveth  judgment. 

And  fo^saketh  not  his  saints  : 

They  are  preserved  forever : 

But  the  seed  of  the  wicked  shall  be  cut  off. 
The  righteous  shall  inherit  the  land, 

And  dwell  therein  forever. 

The  mouth  of  the  righteous  speaketh  wisdom, 
And  his  tongue  talketh  of  judgment; 

The  law  of  his  God  is  in  his  heart; 

None  of  his  steps  shall  slide. 

The  wicked  watcheth  the  righteous. 

And  seeketh  to  slay  him. 

The  Lord  will  not  leave  him  in  his  hand, 

Nor  condemn  him  Avhen  he  is  judged. 

%.  Wait  on  the  Lord  and  keep  his  way, 

And  He  shall  exalt  thee  to  inherit  the  land ; 
When  the  wicked  are  cut  off,  thou  shalt  see  it. 
I have  seen  the  wicked  in  great  power. 

And  spreading  himself  like  a green  "^bay-tree; 
Yet  he  passed  a^vay,  and  lo,  he  was  not; 

Yea,  I sought  him,  but  he  could  not  be  found. 


CLXX.— CHARACTER  OF  COLUMBUS. 

From  Irving. 

1.  Columbus  was  a man  of  great  and  '^'inventive  genius. 
The  operations  of  his  mind  were  "^energetic,  but  irregular', 
bursting  forth,  at  times,  with  that  irresistible  force  which 
characterizes  intellect  of  such  an  order.  His  ambition  was 
lofty  and  noble,  inspiring  him  with  high  thoughts,  and  an 
anxiety  to  distinguish  himself  by  great  '^'achievements.  He 
aimed  at  dignity  and  wealth  in  the  same  elevated  spirit  with 
which  he  sought  renown;  they  were  to  rise  from  the  terri- 
tories he  should  discover,  and  be  commensurate  in  importance. 


426 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


2.  H is  conduct  was  characterized  by  the  grandeur  of  his 
views,  and  the  '^magnanimity  of  his  spirit.  Instead  of  ravag- 
ing the  newly  found  countries,  like  many  of  his  cotemporary 
discoverers,  who  were  intent  only  on  immediate  gain,  he 
regarded  them  with  the  eyes  of  a legislator ; he  sought  to 
colonize  and  cultivate  them,  to  civilize  the  natives,  to  build 
cities,  introduce  the  useful  arts,  subject  every  thing  to  the 
control  of  law,  order,  and  religion,  and  thus  to  found  regular 
*and  prosperous  empires.  That  he  failed  in  this,  was  the  fault 
of  the  dissolute  '^'rabble  which  it  was  his  misfortune  to  com- 
mand, with  whom  all  law  was  tyranny,  and  all  order  op- 
pression. 

3.  He  was  naturally  '^'irascible  and  ^impetuous,  and  keenly 
sensible  to  injury  and  injustice;  yet  the  quickness  of  his 
temper  was  counteracted  by  the  generosity  and  benevolence 
of  his  heart.  The  magnanimity  of  his  nature  shone  forth 
through  all  the  troubles  of  his  stormy  career.  Though  con- 
tinually outraged  in  his  dignity,  braved  in  his  authority, 
folied  in  his  plans,  and  endangered  in  his  person,  by  the 
■^‘seditions  of  turbulent  and  worthless  men,  and  that,  too,  at 
times  when  suffering  under  anguish  of  body  and  anxiety  of 
mind,  enough  to  '^exasperate  the  most  patient,  yet  he  re- 
strained his  valiant  and  indignant  spirit,  and  brought  him- 
self to  forbear,  and  reason,  and  even  to  supplicate.  Nor  can 
the  reader  of  the  story  of  his  eventful  life,  fail  to  notice  how 
free  he  was  from  all  feeling  of  revenge,  how  ready  to  forgive 
and  forget,  on  the  least  sign  of  repentance  and  atonement. 
He  has  been  exalted  for  his  skill  in  '^controlling  others,  but 
far  greater  praise  is  due  to  him  for  the  firmness  he  displayed 
in  governing  himself. 

4.  His  piety  was  genuine  and  fervent.  Religion  mingled 
with  the  whole  course  of  his  thoughts  and  actions,  and  shone 
forth  in  his  most  private  and  unstudied  writings.  Whenever 
he  made  any  great  discovery,  he  devoutly  returned  thanks  to 
God.  The  voice  of  prayer  and  the  melody  of  praise,  rose  from 
his  ships  on  discovering  the  new  world,  and  his  first  action  on 
landing  was,  to  prostrate  himself  upon  the  earth,  and  offer  up 
thanksgiving.  All  his  great  enterprises  were  undertaken  in 
the  name  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  and  he  partook  of  the  holy 
sacrament  previous  to  '•'embarkation.  He  observed  the  festi^ 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


427 


vals  of  the  Church  in  the  wildest  situations.  The  Sabbath 
was  to  him  a day  of  sacred  rest,  on  which  he  would  never  sail 
from  a port,  unless  in  case  of  extreme  necessity.  The  religion 
thus  deeply  seated  in  his  soul,  '‘'diffused  a sober  dignity  and 
a benign  composure,  over  his  whole  '‘'deportment;  his  very 
language  was  pure  and  guarded,  and  free  from  all  gross  or 
irreverent  expressions. 

5.  A peculiar  trait  in  his  rich  and  varied  character  remains 
to  be  noticed;  namely,  that  ardent  and  enthusiastic  imagina- 
tion, which  threw  a magnificence  over  his  whole  course  of 
thought.  A poetical  '‘'temperament  is  discernible  throughout 
all  his  writings,  and  in  all  his  actions.  We  see  it  in  all  his 
descriptions  of  the  beauties  of  the  wild  land  he  was  discover- 
ing, in  the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  extolled  the  '‘'blandness 
of  the  temperature,  the  purity  of  the  atmosphere,  the  fra- 
grance of  the  air,  “full  of  dew  and  sweetness,”  the  verdure 
of  the  forests,  the  grandeur  of  the  mountains,  and  the  crys- 
tal purity  of  the  running  streams.  It  spread  a glorious  and 
golden  world  around  him,  and  tinged  every  thing  with  its 
own  ■‘'gorgeous  colors. 

6.  With  all  the  visionary  ‘fervor  of  his  imagination,  its 
fondest  dreams  fell  short  of  the  reality.  He  died  in  ignorance 
of  the  real  grandeur  of  his  discovery.  Until  his  last  breath, 
he  entertained  the  idea  that  he  had  merely  opened  a new  way 
to  the  old  resorts  of  '‘'opulent  commerce,  and  had  discovered 
some  of  the  wild  regions  of  the  East.  What  visions  of  glory 
would  have  broken  upon  his  mind,  could  he  have  known  that 
he  had  indeed  discovered  a new  continent,  equal  to  the  old 
world  in  magnitude,  and  separated  by  two  vast  oceans,  from 
all  the  earth  hitherto  known  by  civilized  man ! How  would 
his  magnanimous  spirit  have  been  consoled  amid  the  afflictions 
of  age  and  the  cares  of  '‘  penury,  the  neglect  of  a fickle  public 
and  the  injustice  of  an  ungrateful  king,  could  he  have  antici- 
pated the  splendid  empires  which  would  arise  in  the  beautiful 
world  he  had  discovered ; and  the  nations,  and  tongues,  and 
languages,  which  were  to  fill  its  land  with  his  renown,  and  to 
revere  and  bless  his  name  to  the  latest  posterity. 


428 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


CLXXI.— SURRENDER  OF  GRENADA. 

From  Bulwer. 

1.  Day  dawned  upon  Grrenada,  and  the  beams  of  the  win- 
ter  sun,  smiling  away  the  clouds  of  the  past  night,  played 
*^cheerily  upon  the  murmuring  waves  of  the  Xenil  and  the 
Darro.  Alone,  upon  a "^balcony,  commanding  a view  of  the 
beautiful  landscape,  stood  Boabdil,  the  last  of  the  Moorish 
kings.  He  had  sought  to  bring  to  his  aid  all  the  lessons  of 
the  philosophy  he  had  so  ardently  cultivated. 

2.  “What  are  we,”  said  the  musing  prince,  “that  we 
should  fill  the  earth  with  ourselves — we  kings?  Earth  re- 
sounds with  the  crash  of  my  falling  throne;  on  the  ear  of 
races  unborn  the  echo  will  live  prolonged.  But  what  have  I 
lost?  Nothing  that  was  necessary  to  my  happiness,  my  re 
pose:  nothing  save  the  source  of  all  my  wretchedness,  the 
Marah  of  my  life!  Shall  I less  enjoy  heaven  and  earth,  or 
thought  and  action,  or  man’s  more  material  luxuries  of  food 
and  sleep — the  common  and  cheap  desires  of  all?  At  the 
worst,  I sink  but  to  a level  with  chiefs  and  princes : I am  but 
leveled  with  those  whom  the  multitude  admire  and  envy.  . . . 
But  it  is  time  to  depart.”  So  saying,  he  descended  to  the 
court,  flung  himself  on  his  barb,  and,  with  a small  and  sad- 
dened train,  passed  through  the  gate  which  we  yet  survey, 
by  a blackened  and  crumbling  tower,  overgrown  with  vines 
and  ivy;  thence,  amid  gardens,  now  appertaining  to  the 
convent  of  the  '♦'victor  faith,  he  took  his  mournful  and  un- 
noticed way. 

3.  When  he  came  to  the  middle  of  the  hill  that  rises  above 
those  gardens,  the  steel  of  the  Spanish  armor  gleamed  upon 
him,  as  the  '♦'detachment  sent  to  occupy  the  palace,  marched 
over  the  summit  in  steady  order  and  profound  silence. 
At  the  head  of  the  '♦'van-guard,  rode,  upon  a snow-white 
■♦'palfrey,  the  Bishop  of  Avila,  followed  by  a long  train  of 
barefooted  monks.  They  halted  as  Boabdil  approached, 
and  the  grave  bishop  saluted  him  with  the  air  of  one  who 
addressed  an  '♦'infidel  and  inferior.  With  the  quick  sense  of 
dignity  common  to  the  great,  and  yet  more  to  the  fallen, 
Boabdil  felt,  but  resented  not  the  pride  of  the  '♦'ecclesiastic. 
“Go,  Christian,”  said  he  mildly,  “^he  gates  of  the  Alhambra 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


429 


are  open,  and  Allah  has  bestowed  the  palace  and  the  city 
upon  your  king;  may  his  virtues  atone  the  faults  of  Boab- 
dil ! ” So  saying,  and  waiting  no  answer,  he  rode  on,  with- 
out looking  to  the  right  or  the  left.  The  Spaniards  also 
pursued  their  way. 

4.  The  sun  had  fairly  risen  above  the  mountains,  when 
Boabdil  and  his  train  beheld,  from  the  eminence  on  which 
they  were,  the  whole  ^armament  ©f  Spain ; and,  at  the  same 
moment,  louder  than  the  tramp  of  horse  or  the  clash  of 
arms,  was  heard  distinctly,  the  solemn  chant  of  Te  Deum^ 
which  preceded  the  blaze  of  the  unfurled  and  lofty  standards. 
Boabdil,  himself  still  silent,  heard  the  groans  and  '^'acclaraa- 
tions  of  his  train ; he  turned  to  cheer  or  chide  them,  and 
then  saw,  from  his  own  watch-tower,  with  the  sun  shining 
full  upon  its  pure  and  dazzling  surface,  the  silver  cross  of 
Spain.  His  Alhambra  was  already  in  the  hands  of  the  foe  ; 
while  beside  that  badge  of  the  holy  war,  waved  the  gay  and 
'^’flaunting  flag  of  St.  Jago,  the  "^canonized  Mars  of  the  chiv- 
alry of  Spain.  At  that  sight,  the  King’s  voice  died  within 
him;  he  gave  the  rein  to  his  barb,  impatien'  to  close  the 
fatal  '^ceremonial,  and  slackened  not  his  speed,  till  almost 
within  bowshot  of  the  first  rank  of  the  army. 

5.  Never  had  Christian  war  assumed  a more  splendid  and 
imposing  aspect.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  extended  the 
glittering  and  '^gorgeous  lines  of  that  goodly  power,  bristling 
with  sun-lighted  spears  and  blazoned  banners;  while  beside, 
murmured,  and  glowed,  and  danced,  the  silver  and  laughing 
Xenil,  careless  what  lord  should  possess,  for  his  little  day, 
the  banks  that  bloomed  by  its  everlasting  course.  By  a small 
'^mosque,  halted  the  flower  of  the  army.  Surrounded  by  the 
arch-priests  of  that  mighty  '’'hierarchy,  the  peers  and  princes 
of  a court  that  '’'rivaled  the  Boland  of  Charlemagne,  was  seen 
the  kingly  form  of  Ferdinand  himself,  with  Isabel  at  his  right 
hand,  and  the  high-born  dames  of  Spain,  relieving,  with  their 
gay  colors  and  sparkling  gems,  the  sterner  splendor  of  the 
crested  helmet  and  polished  mail.  Within  sight  of  the  royal 
group,  Boabdil  halted,  composed  his  aspect  so  as  best  to  con- 
ceal his  soul,  and  a little  in  advance  of  his  scanty  train,  but 
never  in  mien  and  majesty  more  a king,  the  son  of  Abdallah 
met  his  haughty  conqueror. 

36 


430 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


6.  At  the  sight  of  his  princely  countenance  and  golden 
hair,  his  comely  and  commanding  beauty,  made  more  touch- 
ing by  youth,  a thrill  of  compassionate  admiration  ran  through 
that  assembly  of  the  brave  and  fair.  Ferdinand  and  Isabel 
slowly  advanced  to  meet  their  late  rival, — their  new  subject; 
and  as  Boabdil  would  have  dismounted,  the  Spanish  king 
placed  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  “ Brother  and  prince,’' 
said  he,  “ forget  thy  sorrows ; and  may  our  friendship  here- 
after console  thee  for  reverses  against  which  thou  hast  con- 
tended as  a hero  and  a king;  resisting  man,  but  resigned  at 
length  to  Grod.” 

7.  Boabdil  did  not  affect  to  return  this  bitter,  but  unin- 
tentional mockery  of  compliment.  He  bowed  his  head,  and 
remained  a moment  silent ; then,  motioning  to  his  train,  four 
of  his  officers  approached,  and,  kneeling  beside  Ferdinand, 
proffered  to  him,  upon  a silver  '•'buckler,  the  keys  of  the 
city.  ^‘0  king!”  then  said  Boabdil,  ^‘accept  the  keys  of 
the  last  hold  which  has  resisted  the  arms  of  Spain ! The 
empire  of  the  '•'Moslem  is  no  more.  Thine  are  the  city  and 
the  people  of  Grrenada;  yielding  to  thy  '•'prowess,  they  yet 
'•'confide  in  thy  mercy.”  “They  do  well,”  said  the  king; 
“ our  promises  shall  not  be  broken.  But  since  we  know  the 
gallantry  of  Moorish  '•'cavaliers,  not  to  us,  but  to  gentler 
hands,  shall  the  keys  of  Grenada  be  surrendered.” 

8.  Thus  saying,  Ferdinand  gave  the  keys  to  Isabel,  who 
would  have  addressed  some  soothing  flatteries  to  Boabdil, 
but  the  emotion  and  excitement  were  too  much  for  her  com- 
passionate heart,  heroine  and  queen  though  she  was;  and 
when  she  lifted  her  eyes  upon  the  calm  and  pale  features 
of  the  fallen  monarch,  the  tears  gushed  from  them  irresisti- 
bly, and  her  voice  died  in  murmurs.  A faint  flush  overspread 
the  features  of  Boabdil,  and  there  was  a momentary  pause  of 
embarrassment,  which  the  Moor  was  the  first  to  break. 

9.  “ Fair  queen,”  said  he,  with  mournful  and  pathetic  dig- 
nity, “thou  canst  read  the  heart  that  thy  generous  sympathy 
touches  and  subdues ; this  is  thy  last,  but  not  least  glorious 
conquest.  But  I detain  ye;  let  not  my  aspect  cloud  your 
triumph.  Suffer  me  to  say  farewell.”  “ Farewell,  my  brother,” 
replied  Ferdinand,  “and  may  fair  fortune  go  with  you  I For- 
get the  past!”  Boabdil  smiled  bitterly,  saluted  the  royal 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


431 


pair  witli  profound  respect  and  silent  reverence,  and  rode 
slowly  on,  leaving  the  army  below,  as  he  ascended  the  path 
that  led  to  his  new  '^'principality,  beyond  the  Alpuxarras. 
As  the  trees  snatched  the  Moorish  '^cavalcade  from  the  view 
of  the  king,  Ferdinand  ordered  the  army  to  recommence  its 
march;  and  trumpet  and  cymbal  presently  sent  their  music 
to  the  ear  of  the  Moslem. 

10.  Boabdil  spurred  on,  at  full  speed,  till  his  panting 
charger  halted  at  the  little  village  where  his  mother,  his 
slaves,  and  his  faithful  wife.  Amine,  (sent  on  before,)  awaited 
him.  Joining  these,  he  proceeded  without  delay  upon  his 
melancholy  path.  They  ascended  that  eminence,  which  is  the 
pass  into  the  Alpuxarras.  From  its  height,  the  vale,  the  riv- 
ers, the  spires,  and  the  towers  of  Grenada,  broke  gloriously 
upon  the  view  of  the  little  band.  They  halted  '‘'mechanically 
and  abruptly;  every  eye  was  turned  to  the  beloved  scene. 
The  proud  shame  of  '^baffled  warriors,  the  tender  memories 
of  home,  of  childhood,  of  father-land,  swelled  every  heart, 
and  gushed  from  every  eye. 

11.  Suddenlyj  the  distant  boom  of  artillery  broke  from  the 
‘'citadel,  and  rolled  along  the  sun-lighted  valley  and  crystal 
river.  An  universal  wail  burst  from  the  exiles ; it  smote,  it 
overpowered  the  heart  of  the  '^'ill-starred  king,  in  vain  seek- 
ing to  wrap  himself  in  the  eastern  pride,  or  '^'stoical  philoso- 
phy. The  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes,  and  he  '‘'covered  his 
face  with  his  hands.  The  band  wound  slowly  on  through  the 
solitary  '‘'defiles ; and  that  place,  where  the  king  wept  at  the 
last  view  of  his  lost  empire,  is  still  called  The  Last  Sigh 
OF  THE  Moor. 


CLXXII.— THE  LAST  SIGH  OF  THE  MOOR. 

From  Miss  Jewsbury. 

The  Spaniards  gave  this  name  The  Last  Sigh  of  the  Moor,”  to  the 
eminence  from  which,  after  their  expulsion,  the  Moorish  king  and  his 
followers  took  their  farewell  view  of  Grenada. 

1.  Winding  along,  at  break  of  day, 

And  armed  with  helm  and  spearg, 

Along  the  "‘'martyr’s  rocky  way, 

A king  comes,  with  his  peers, 


432 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 

Unto  the  eye  a splendid  sight, 

Making  the  air  all  richly  bright, 

Seen  flashing  through  the  trees; 

But,  to  the  heart,  a scene  of  blight, 

Sadder  than  death  were  these. 

2.  For  brightly  fall  the  morning  rays 

Upon  a conquered  king ; 

The  breeze  that  with  his  '^'banner  plays, 
Plays  with  an  '^'abject  thing. 

Banner  and  king  no  more  will  know 
Their  rightful  place  mid  friend  and  foe: 

Proud  "^clarion,  cease  thy  blast! 

Or,  changing  to  the  wail  of  woe. 

Breathe  dirges  for  the  past. 

3.  Along,  along,  by  rock  and  tower, 

That  they  have  failed  to  keep, 

By  wood  and  vale,  their  fathers’  dower, 

The  exiled  warriors  sweep  : 

The  chevroned  * steed,  no  more  "delate. 

As  if  he  knew  his  rider’s  fate. 

Steps  ^languidly  and  slow, 

As  if  he  knew  Grenada’s  gate. 

Now  open  to  the  foe. 

4.  Along,  along,  till  all  is  past. 

That  once  they  called  their  own. 

Till  bows  the  pride  of  strength  at  last. 

And  knights,  like  women,  "^moan. 

Pausing  upon  the  green  hill-side, 

That  soon  their  city’s  towers  will  hide. 

They  lean  upon  their  spears; 

And  hands,  that  late  with  blood  were  dyed, 
Are  now  washed  white  with  tears. 

5.  Another  look,  from  brimming  eyes. 

Along  the  glorious  plain; 

Elsewhere  may  spread  as  lovely  skies, 
Elsewhere  their  monarch  reign; 

But  nevermore  in  that  bright  land, 

With  all  his  chivalry  at  hand! 

Now  dead  or  far  departed! 

And  from  the  hill-side  moves  the  band, 

The  bravest,  broken-hearted. 


*A  chevron  is  a certain  mark  used  in  heraldry. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


433 


CLXXIII.— THE  MOON  AND  STARS— A FABLE. 

From  Montgomery. 

James  Montgomery,  an  English  poet,  is  one  of  the  most  amiable 
and  pathetic  of  modern  writers.  Though  he  can  not  be  ranked  in  the 
first  class  of  poets,  he  merits  the  praise  of  never  having  written  a line 
that  did  not  tend  to  the  honor  of  God  and  the  good  of  man. 

1.  On  the  fourth  day  of  creation,  when  the  sun,  after  a 
glorious,  but  solitary  course,  went  down  in  the  evening,  and 
darkness  began  to  gather  over  the  face  of  the  uninhabited 
globe,  already '^'arrayed  in  the '^'exuberance  of  vegetation,  and 
prepared  by  the  diversity  of  land  and  water,  for  the  abode 
of  uncreated  animals  and  man, — a star,  single  and  beautiful, 
stepped  forth  into  the  '•'firmament.  Trembling  with  wonder 
and  delight  in  new-found  existence,  she  looked  abroad,  and 
beheld  nothing  in  heaven  or  on  earth  resembling  herself. 
But  she  was  not  long  alone;  now  one,  then  another,  here  a 
third,  and  there  a fourth  resplendent  companion  had  joined 
her,  till  light  after  light  stealing  through  the  gloom,  in  the 
lapse  of  an  hour  the  whole  hemisphere  was  brilliantly  '•'be- 
spangled. 

2.  The  planets  and  stars,  with  a '•'superb  comet  flaming 
in  the  '•'zenith,  for  awhile  contemplated  themselves  and  each 
other;  and  every  one  from  the  largest  to  the  least,  was  so 
perfectly  well  pleased  with  himself,  that  he  imagined  the  rest 
only  partakers  of  his  felicity;  he  being  the  central  '•'luminary 
of  his  own  universe,  and  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  beside,  dis- 
played around  him,  in  '•'graduated  splendor.  Nor  were  any 
undeceived  in  regard  to  themselves^  though  all  saw  their  as- 
sociates in  their  real  situations  and  relative  proportions: — 
self-knowledge  being  the  last  knowledge  acquired  either  in 
the  sky  or  below  it; — till  bending  over  the  ocean  in  their 
turns,  they  discovered  what  they  supposed  at  first  to  be  a new 
heaven,  peopled  with  beings  of  their  own  species.  But  when 
they  perceived  further,  that  no  sooner  had  any  one  of  their 
company  touched  the  horizon  than  he  instantly  disappeared ; 
they  then  recognized  themselves  in  their  individual  forms^ 
reflected  beneath  according  to  their  places  and  '•'configura- 
tions above,  from  seeing  others,  whom  they  previously  knew, 
reflected  in  like  manner. 


434 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


3.  By  an  attentive  but  mournful  self-examination  in  that 
mirror,  they  slowly  learned  humility ; but  every  one  learned 
it  only  for  himself,  none  believing  what  others  '‘'insinuated 
respecting  their  own  inferiority,  till  they  reached  the  west- 
ern slope,  from  whence  they  could  '‘'identify  their  true  visages 
in  the  ’‘'nether  element.  Nor  was  this  very  surprising;  stars 
being  only  visible  points,  without  any  distinction  of  limbs, 
each  was  all  eye;  and  though  he  could  see  others  most  cor- 
rectly, he  could  neither  see  himself  nor  any  part  of  himself, 
till  he  came  to  '‘'reflection.  The  comet,  however,  having  a 
long  train  of  brightness,  streaming  sun-ward,  could  review 
that,  and  did  review  it  with  '‘'ineifable  self-complacency.  In- 
deed, after  all  pretensions  to  precedence,  he  was  at  length 
acknowledged  king  of  the  ''hemisphere,  if  not  by  the  uni- 
versal assent,  by  the  silent  envy  of  all  his  rivals. 

4.  But  the  object  which  attracted  most  attention,  and 
astonishment  too,  was  a slender  thread  of  light  that  scarcely 
could  be  discerned  through  the  blush  of  evening,  and  vanished 
soon  after  night-fall,  as  if  ashamed  to  appear  in  so  scanty  a 
form,  like  an  unfinished  work  of  creation.  It  was  the  moon; 
the  first  new  moon.  Timidly,  she  looked  around  upon  the 
glittering  multitude  that  crowded  the  dark  '•'serenity  of  space, 
and  filled  it  with  life  and  beauty.  Minute  indeed  they  seemed 
to  her,  but  perfect  in  '‘'symmetry,  and  formed  to  shine  forever 
while  she  was  unshapen,  incomplete,  and  '•'evanescent.  In  her 
humility,  she  was  glad  to  hide  herself  from  their  keen  glances 
in  the  friendly  bosom  of  the  ocean,  wishing  for  immediate  '•'ex- 
tinction. 

5.  When  she  was  gone,  the  stars  looked  one  at  another 
with  inquisitive  surprise,  as  much  as  to  say,  “ What  a figure ! ” 
It  was  so  evident  that  they  all  thought  alike,  and  thought  con- 
temptuously of  the  '•'apparition,  (though  at  first  they  almost 
doubted  whether  they  should  not  be  frightened,)  that  they 
soon  began  to  talk  freely  concerning  her;  of  course  not  with 
audible  accents,  but  in  the  language  of  intelligent  sparkles,  in 
which  stars  are  accustomed  to  converse  with  telegraphic  '•'pre- 
cision from  one  end  of  heaven  to  the  other,  and  which  no 
'•'dialect  on  earth  so  nearly  resembles,  as  the  language  of  the 
eyes ; the  only  one,  probably,  that  has  survived  in  its  purity, 
not  only  the  confusion  of  Babel,  but  the  revolutions  of  all 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


435 


ages.  Her  crooked  form  and  her  shyness,  were  ridiculed  and 
censured  from  pole  to  pole.  For  what  purpose  such  a mon- 
ster could  have  been  created,  not  the  wisest  could  conjecture; 
yet,  to  tell  the  truth,  every  one,  though  glad  to  be  counte- 
nanced in  the  affectation  of  scorn  by  the  rest,  had  secret 
misgivings  concerning  the  stranger,  and  envied  the  delicate 
^brilliancy  of  her  light. 

6.  All  the  gay  company,  however,  quickly  returned  to  the 
admiration  of  themselves,  and  the  "^inspection  of  each  other. 
Thus,  the  first  night  passed  away.  But,  when  the  east  began 
to  dawn,  '‘'consternation  seized  the  whole  army  of  '‘'celestials, 
each  feeling  himself  fainting  into  invisibility,  and,  as  he  feared, 
into  nothingness,  while  his  neighbors  were,  one  after  another, 
totally  disappearing.  At  length,  the  sun  arose,  and  filled  the 
heavens,  and  clothed  the  earth  with  his  glory.  How  he  spent 
that  day,  belongs  not  to  this  history ; but  it  is  elsewhere  re- 
corded, that,  for  the  first  time  from  eternity,  the  lark,  on 
the  wings  of  the  morning,  sprang  up  to  salute  him ; the 
eagle,  at  noon,  looked  undazzled  on  his  splendor;  and  when 
he  went  down  beyond  the  deep,  the  leviathan  was  sporting 
amid  the  multitude  of  waves. 


CLXXIV.— THE  MOON  AND  STARS— CONCLUDED. 

1.  In  the  evening,  the  vanished  '‘'constellations  again  grad- 
ually awoke;  and,  on  opening  their  eyes,  were  so  rejoiced  at 
meeting  together, — not  one  being  wanting  of  last  night’s 
levee, — that  they  were  in  the  highest  good  humor  with  them- 
selves and  one  another.  Decked  in  all  their  beams,  and 
darting  their  '‘'benignest  infiuence,  they  exchanged  smiles 
and  endearments,  and  made  vows  of  affection,  eternal  and 
unchangeable;  while,  from  this  nether  orb,  the  song  of  the 
nightingale  arose  out  of  darkness,  and  charmed  even  the 
stars  in  their  courses,  being  the  first  sound,  except  the  roar 
of  the  ocean,  that  they  had  ever  heard.  “ The  music  of  the 
spheres”  may  be  traced  to  the  rapture  of  that  hour. 

2.  The  little,  gleaming  horn  was  again  discerned,  leaning 
backward  over  the  western  hills.  This  companionless  '‘lumi- 


436 


NEW  SIXTH  HEADER. 


nary,  they  thought — but  they  must  be  mistaken — it  could  not 
be — and  yet  they  were  afraid  that  it  was  so — appeared  some- 
what larger  than  on  the  former  occasion.  But  the  moon,  still 
only  venturing  to  glance  at  this  scene  of  '^'magnificence,  es- 
caped beneath  the  horizon,  leaving  the  comet  in  proud  pos- 
session of  the  sky. 

3.  On  the  third  evening,  the  moon  was  so  obviously  in- 
creased in  size  and  splendor,  and  stood  so  much  higher  in  the 
firmament  than  at  first,  though  she  still  hastened  out  of  sight, 
that  she  was  the  sole  suoject  of  conversation  on  both  sides  of 
the  '^'galaxy,  till  the  breeze,  that  awakened  newly-created  man 
from  his  first  slumber  in  Paradise,  warned  the  stars  to  retire ; 
and  the  sun,  with  a pomp  never  witnessed  in  our  degenerate 
days,  "^ushered  in  the  great  Sabbath  of  creation,  when  “ the 
heaven  and  the  earth  were  finished,  and  all  the  hosts  of  them.” 

4.  The  following  night,  the  moon  took  her  station  still 
higher,  and  looked  brighter  than  before.  Still,  however,  she 
preserved  her  humility  and  shamefacedness,  till  her  "^crescent 
had  exceeded  the  first  quarter.  Hitherto,  she  had  only  grown 
lovelier,  but  now  she  grew  prouder  at  every  step  of  her  '^'pre- 
ferment.  Her  rays,  too,  became  so  intolerably  dazzling,  that 
fewer  and  fewer  of  the  stars  could  endure  her  presence,  but 
shrouded  themselves  in  her  light  as  behind  a veil.  When 
she  verged  to  "^maturity,  the  heavens  seemed  too  small  for  her 
ambition.  She  ‘-rose  in  clouded  majesty,”  but  the  clouds 
melted  at  her  approach,  or  spread  their  rich  and  rainbow- 
tinted  garments  in  her  path. 

5.  She  had  crossed  the  comet  in  her  course,  and  left  him  as 
wan  as  a vapor  behind  her.  On  the  night  of  her  fullness,  she 
triumphed  gloriously  in  mid-heaven,  smiled  on  the  earth,  and 
arrayed  it  in  a softer  day;  for  she  had  repeatedly  seen  the 
sun,  and  though  she  could  not  rival  him  when  he  was  above 
the  horizon,  she  fondly  hoped  to  make  his  absence  forgotten. 
Over  the  ocean  she  hung,  '^'enamored  of  her  own  beauty  re- 
flected in  the  abyss.  The  few  stars  that  still  could  stand 
amid  her  overpowering  '’effulgence  '’'converged  their  rays,  and 
shrunk  into  bluer  depths  of  '’'ether,  to  gaze  at  a safe  distance 
upon  her.  “What  more  can  she  be?”  thought  these  scattered 
survivors  of  myriads  of  extinguished  sparklers:  “as  hitherto 
she  has  increased  every  evening,  to-morrow  she  will  do  the 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


437 


same;  and  we  must  be  lost,  like  our  brethren,  in  her  all- 
conquering  ■‘'resplendence.  ” 

6.  The  moon  herself  was  not  a little  puzzled  to  imagine 
what  might  become  of  her ; but  vanity  readily  suggested,  that 
although  she  had  reached  her  full  form,  she  had  not  reached 
her  full  size;  consequently,  by  a regular  nightly  expansion 
of  circumference,  she  would  finally  cover  the  whole  ‘‘'convexity 
of  the  sky,  not  only  to  the  exclusion  of  stars,  but  of  the  sun 
himself,  since  he  occupied  a superior  region  of  space,  and  cer- 
tainly could  not  shine  through  her ; till  man  and  his  beau- 
tiful companion  woman,  looking  upward  from  the  bowers  of 
Eden,  would  see  all  moon  above  them,  and  walk  in  the  light 
of  her  countenance  forever. 

7.  In  the  midst  of  this  pleasing  self-illusion,  a '‘'film  crept 
upon  her,  which  spread  from  her  utmost  verge,  athwart  her 
center,  till  it  had  completely  '‘'eclipsed  her  visage,  and  made 
her  a blot  on  the  tablet  of  the  heavens.  In  the  progress  of 
this  disaster,  the  stars,  which  were  hid  in  her  pomp,  stole 
forth  to  witness  her  humiliation.  But  their  transport  and 
her  shame,  lasted  not  long;  the  shadow  retired  as  gradually 
as  it  had  advanced,  leaving  her  fairer  by  contrast  than  be- 
fore. Soon  afterward,  the  day  broke,  and  she  withdrew, 
marveling  what  would  next  befall  her. 

8.  Never  had  the  stars  been  more  impatient  to  resume 
their  places,  nor  the  moon  more  impatient  to  rise,  than  on 
the  following  evening.  With  trembling  hope  and  fear,  the 
planets  that  came  out  first  after  sunset,  espied  her  disk, 
broad  and  dark  red,  emerging  from  a gulf  of  clouds  in  the 
east.  At  the  first  glance,  their  keen,  celestial  sight  discov- 
ered that  her  western  limb  was  a little,  contracted,  and  her 
orb  no  longer  perfect.  She  herself  was  too  much  elated  to 
suspect  any  failing,  and  fondly  imagined  that  she  had  con* 
tinned  to  increase  all  around,  till  she  had  got  above  the  Pa- 
cific ; but  even  then,  she  was  only  chagrined  to  perceive,  that 
her  image  was  no  larger  than  it  had  been  last  night.  There 
was  not  a star  in  the  ‘‘'horoscope — no,  not  the  comet  him- 
self—durst  tell  her  she  was  less. 

9.  Another  day  went,  and  another  night  came.  She  rose 
as  usual,  a little  later.  Even  while  she  traveled  above  the 
land,  she  was  haunted  with  the  idea,  that  her  luster  was  rather 

37 


438 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


feebler  than  it  had  been ; but  when  she  beheld  her  face  in  the 
sea,  she  could  no  longer  overlook  the  unwelcome  defect.  The 
season  was  boisterous ; the  wind  rose  suddenly,  and  the  waves 
burst  into  foam ; perhaps  the  tide,  for  the  first  time,  was  then 
affected  by  sympathy  with  the  moon ; and  what  had  never  hap- 
pened before,  an  universal  tempest  mingled  heaven  and  earth 
in  rain,  and  lightning,  and  darkness.  She  plunged  among 
the  thickest  of  the  thunder-clouds,  and  in  the  confusion  that 
hid  her  disgrace,  her  "^exulting  rivals  were  all  likewise  put 
out  of  countenance. 

10.  On  the  next  evening,  and  every  evening  afterward,  the 
moon  came  forth  later,  and  less,  and  dimmer;  while  on  each 
occasion,  more  and  more  of  the  minor  stars,  which  had  for- 
merly vanished  from  her  eye,  re-appeared  to  witness  her 
fading  honors  and  disfigured  form.  Prosperity  had  made  her 
vain;  adversity  brought  her  to  her  mind  again,  and  humility 
soon  ’•'compensated  the  loss  of  glaring  distinction,  with  softer 
charms,  which  won  the  regard  which  haughtiness  had  repelled ; 
for  when  she  had  worn  off  her  uncouth  '•'gibbous  aspect,  and 
through  the  last  quarter,  her  profile  '•'waned  into  a hollow  shell, 
she  appeared  more  graceful  than  ever  in  the  eyes  of  all  heaven. 

11.  When  she  was  originally  seen  among  them,  the  stars 
contemned  her ; afterward,  as  she  grew  in  beauty,  they  envied, 
feared,  hated,  and  finally  fled  from  her.  As  she  '•'relapsed 
into  insignificance,  they  first  rejoiced  in  her  decay,  and  then 
endured  her  superiority,  because  it  could  not  last  long;  but 
when  they  marked  how  she  had  wasted  away  every  time  they 
met,  compassion  succeeded,  and,  on  the  last  three  nights,  (like 
a human  fair  one,  in  the  latest  stages  of  decline,  growing  love- 
lier and  dearer  to  her  friends  till  the  close,)  she  disarmed  hos- 
tility, '•'conciliated  kindness,  and  secured  affection.  She  was 
admired,  beloved,  and  unenvied  by  all. 

12.  At  length  there  came  a night  when  there  was  no  moon. 
There  was  silence  in  heaven  all  that  night.  In  serene  medi- 
tation on  the  changes  of  the  month,  the  stars  pursued  their 
journey  from  sunset  to  day-break.  The  comet  had,  likewise, 
departed  into  unknown  regions.  His  fading  luster  had  been 
attributed,  at  first,  to  the  bolder  radiance  of  the  moon  in 
her  '•'meridian;  but,  during  the  wane,  while  inferior  lumi- 
naries were  brightening  around  her,  he  was  growing  faintar 


Eclectic  series. 


439 


iind  smaller  every  evening,  and  now,  he  was  no  more.  Of 
the  rest,  planets  and  stars,  all  were  unimpaired  in  their  light, 
and  the  former  only  slightly  varied  in  their  positions.  The 
whole  miiltitude,  wiser  by  experience,  and  better  for  their 
knowledge.  Were  humble,  contented,  and  grateful,  each  for 
his  lot.^  whether  splendid  or  obscure. 

13.  Next  evening,  to  the  joy  and  astonishment  of  all,  tho 
moon,  with  a new  crescent,  was  descried  in  the  west;  and 
instantly,  from  every  quarter  of  the  heavens,  she  was  congrat' 
ulated  on  her  happy  resurrection.  Just  as  she  went  down, 
while  her  bow  was  yet  '’'recumbent  in  the  dark  purple  '’'horizon, 
it  is  said  that  an  angel  appeared,  standing  between  her  horns. 
Turning  his  head,  his  eye  glanced  rapidly  over  the  universe; 
the  sun  far  sunk  behind  him,  the  moon  under  his  feet,  the 
earth  spread  in  prospect  before  him,  and  the  firmament  all 
glittering  with  constellations  above.  He  paused  a moment, 
and  then  in  that  tongue,  wherein,  at  the  '’'accomplishment  of 
creation,  “ the  morning  stars  sang  together,  and  all  the  sons 
of  God  shouted  for  joy,”  he  thus  brake  forth:  “Great  and 
marvelous  are  thy  works.  Lord  God  Almighty ! In  wisdom 
hast  thou  made  them  all.  Who  would  not  fear  thee,  0 Lord, 
and  glorify Ahy  name,  for  thou  only  art  holy!”  He  ceased; 
and  from  that  hour  there  has  been  harmony  in  heaven. 


CLXXV.— THUNDER-STORM  ON  THE  ALPS. 

From  Byron. 

1.  Clear,  placid  Leman!  thy  '•'contrasted  lake, 

With  the  wide  world  I dwell  in,  is  a thing 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 
Earth’s  troubled  waters  for  a purer  spring. 

This  quiet  sail  is  as  a noiseless  wing 

To  waft  me  from  '•'distraction;  once  I loved 
Torn  ocean’s  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet,  as  if  a sister’s  voice  reproved, 

That  I with  stern  delight  should  e’er  have  been  so  moved 

2.  All  heaven  and  earth  are  still;  though  not  in  sleep, 

But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most; 

And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep: 


440 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


All  heaven  and  earth  are  still  : from  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  '•'lulled  lake  and  mountain-coast, 

All  is  '•'concentered  in  a life  intense, 

Where  not  a beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 

But  hath  a part  of  being,  and  a sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defense. 

The  sky  is  changed ! and  such  a change ! 0 night, 

And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong. 

Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a dark  eye  in  woman  ! Far  along, 

From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  '•'crags  among, 

Leaps  the  live  thunder!  Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 

But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a tongue. 

And  Jura  answers,  from  her  '•'misty  shroud. 

Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  which  call  to  her  aloud! 

4.  And  this  is  in  the  night. — Most  glorious  night! 

Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber!  let  mo  be 

A sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight ; 

A portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee  • 

How  the  lit  lake  shines, — a '•'phosphoric  sea! 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth! 

And  now  again,  ’tis  black;  and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o’er  a young  earthquake’s  birth. 

5.  Now,  where  the  swift  '•'Rhone  '•'cleaves  his  way  between 
Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 

In  hate,  whose  '•'mining  depths  so  '•'intervene. 

That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted; 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  '•'thwarted, 
Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage. 

Which  blighted  their  life’s  bloom,  and  then — departed! 
Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years,  all  Avinters,  war  within  themselves  to  wage. 

6.  Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  has  ta’en  his  stand! 

For  here,  not  one,  but  many  make  their  play. 

And  fling  their  thunder-bolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around ! Of  all  the  band. 

The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  forked 
His  lightnings — as  if  he  did  understand, 

That  in  such  gaps  as  '•'desolation  worked. 

There,  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurked. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


441 


CLXXVL— THE  MANIAC. 

From  Lewis. 

It  is  said,  that  a gentleman  in  England,  in  order  to  gain  possession 
of  his  wife’s  property,  eonfined  her  in  a rnad-house,  under  pretense  of 
insanity,  until  she  became  really  a maniac. 

1.  Stay,  jailer,  stay,  and  hear  my  woe ! 

She  is  not  mad  who  kneels  to  thee  ; 

For  what  I ’m  now,  too  well  I know, 

And  what  I was,  and  what  should  be. 

I ’ll  rave  no  more  in  proud  despair; 

My  language  shall  be  mild,  though  sad ; 

But  yet  I ’ll  firmly,  truly  swear, 

I am  not  mad;  I am  not  mad. 

2.  My  tyrant  husband  forged  the  tale, 

Which  chains  me  in  this  dismal  cell; 

My  fate  unknown  my  friends  bewail; 

0 jailer,  haste  that  fate  to  tell; 

0!  haste  my  father’s  heart  to  cheer-, 

His  heart  at  once  ’twill  grieve  and  glad 
To  know,  though  kept  a captive  here, 

1 am  not  mad;  I am  not  mad. 

3.  He  smiles  in  scorn,  and  turns  the  key; 

He  quits  the  grate ; I knelt  in  vain  ; 

His  glimmering  lamp,  still,  still  I see: 

’T  is  gone,  and  all  is  gloom  again : 

Cold ! bitter  cold  ! no  warmth,  no  light ! 

Life,  all  thy  comforts  once  I had; 

Yet  here  I’m  chained,  this  freezing  night. 

Although  not  mad;  no,  no,  not  mad. 

4.  ’Tis  sure  some  dream,  some  vision  vain; 

What!  I, — ^the  child  of  rank  and  wealth? 

Am  I the  wretch  who  clanks  this  chain. 

Bereft  of  freedom,  friends,  and  health? 

Ah!  while  I dwell  on  blessings  fled. 

Which  never  more  my  heart  must  glad, 

How  aches  my  heart,  how  burns  my  head; 

But  ’t  is  not  inad;  no,  ’tis  not  mad. 

5.  Hast  thou,  my  child,  forgot,  ere  this, 

A mother’s  face,  a mother’s  tongue? 

She’ll  ne’er  forget  your  parting  kiss. 

Nor  round  her  neck  how  fast  you  clung; 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Nor  how  with  me  you  sued  to  stay; 

Nor  how  that  suit  your  sire  forbade; 

Nor  how — I’ll  drive  such  thoughts  away; 

They’ll  make  me  mad;,  they’ll  make  me  mad, 

6.  His  rosy  lips,  how  sweet  they  smiled! 

His  mild,  blue  eyes,  how  bright  they  shone! 
None  ever  bore  a lovelier  child: 

And  art  thou  now  forever  gone  ? 

And  must  I never  see  thee  more, 

My  pretty,  pretty,  pretty  lad? 

I will  be  free ! unbar  the  door ! 

1 am  not  mad;  I am  not  mad. 

7.  Oh!  hark!  what  mean  those  yells  and  cries? 

His  chain  some  furious  madman  breaks; 

He  comes!  I see  his  glaring  eyes; 

Now,  now  my  dungeon  grate  he  shakes! 

Help!  help!  He’s  gone!  Oh!  fearful  woe, 
Such  screams  to  hear,  such  sights  to  see! 

My  brain,  my  brain, — I know,  I know, 

I am  not  mad,  but  soon  shall  be. 

8.  Yes,  soon; — for,  lo  you! — while  I speak, 

Mark  how  yon  Demon’s  eyeballs  glare! 

He  sees  me;  now,  with  dreadful  shriek, 

He  whirls  a serpent  high  in  air. 

Horror! — the  reptile  strikes  his  tooth 
Deep  in  my  heart,  so  crushed  and  sad; 

Ay,  laugh,  ye  fiends  ; — I feel  the  truth ; 

Your  task  is  done! — F m mad!  F m mad  I 


CLXXVIL --IMPORTANCE  OF  THE  UNION. 

From  Webster. 

1.  Mr.  President:  I am  conscious  of  having  detained 
you  and  the  senate  much  too  long.  I was  drawn  into  the  de- 
bate with  no  previous  '^'deliben  .on,  such  as  is  suited  to  the 
discussion  of  so  grave  and  important  a subject.  But  it  is  a 
subject  of  which  my  heart  is  full,  and  I have  not  been  willing 
to  suppress  the  utterance  of  its  '^spontaneous  sentiments.  I 
can  not,  even  now,  persuade  myself  to  relinquish  it,  without 
expressing  once  more,  ray  deep  conviction,  that,  since  it 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


443 


respects  nothing  less  than  the  union  of  the  states,  it  is  of 
mosf^vital  and  '•'essential  importance  to  the  public  happiness. 

2.  I profess,  sir,  in  my  '•'career  hitherto,  to  have  kept 
steadily  in  view  the  prosperity  and  honor  of  the  whole  coun- 
try, and  the  preservation  of  our  federal  union.  It  is  to  that 
union  we  owe  our  safety  at  home,  and  our  consideration  and 
dignity  abroad.  It  is  to  that  union,  that  we  are  chiefly  in- 
debted for  whatever  makes  us  most  proud  of  our  country. 
That  union  we  reached  only  by  the  discipline  of  our  virtues, 
in  the  severe  school  of  adversity.  It  had  its  origin  in  the 
necessities  of  disordered  '•'finance,  '•'prostrate  commerce,  and 
ruined  credit.  Under  its  '•'benign  infiuences,  these  great  in- 
terests immediately  awoke  as  from  the  dead,  and  sprang  forth 
with  newness  of  life.  Every  year  of  its  duration  has  teemed 
with  fresh  proof  of  its  utility  and  its  blessings ; and,  although 
our  territory  has  stretched  out  wider  and  wider,  and  our  pop- 
ulation spread  further  and  further,  they  have  not  outrun  its 
protection  or  its  benefits.  It  has  been  to  us  all  a copious 
fountain  of  national,  social,  and  personal  happiness. 

3.  I have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look  beyond  the 
union,  to  see  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  dark  '•'recess  be- 
hind. I have  not  coolly  weighed  the  chances  of  preserving 
liberty,  when  the  bonds  that  unite  us  together  shall  be  broken 
asunder.  I have  not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the  prec- 
ipice of  '•'disunion,  to  see  whether,  with  my  short  sight,  I can 
fathom  the  abyss  below;  n^^r  could  I regard  him  as  a safe 
'•'counselor  in  the  affairs  of  the  government,  whose  thoughts 
should  be  mainly  bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  union 
might  best  be  preserved,  but  how  tolerable  might  be  the  con- 
dition of  the  people,  when  it  shall  be  broken  up  and  destroyed. 

4.  While  the  union  lasts,  we  have  high,  exciting,  gratify- 
ing prospects  spread  out  before  us,  for  us  and  our  children. 
Beyond  that,  I seek  not  to  penetrate  the  veil.  God  grant, 
that  in  my  day,  at  least,  that  curtain  may  not  rise.  God 
grant,  that  on  my  vision  never  may  be  opened  what  lies  be- 
hind. When  my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  behold,  for  the  last 
time,  the  sun  in  heaven,  may  I not  see  him  shining  on  the 
broken  and  dishonored  fragments  of  a once  glorious  union ; 
on  states '•'dissevered,  '•'discordant,  '•'belligerent;  our  land  rent 
with  civil  '•'feuds,  or  drenched,  it  may  be,  in  fraternal  blood. 


444 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


5.  Let  their  last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  be^ 
hold  the  '’'gorgeous  '’'ensign  of  the  Republic,  now  known  and 
honored  throughout  the  earth,  still  full  high  advanced,  its 
arms  and  trophies  streaming  in  their  original  luster,  not  a 
stripe  '^'erased  or  polluted,  not  a single  star  obscured,  bearing 
for  its  motto  no  such  miserable  interrogatory  as.  What  is  all 
this  worth?  nor  those  other  words  of  delusion  and  folly.  Lib- 
erty firsts  and  Union  afterward ; but  every-where,  spread  all 
over,  in  characters  of  living  light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample 
folds,  as  they  float  over  the  sea,  and  over  the  land,  and  on 
every  wind,  and  under  the  whole  heavens,  that  other  senti- 
ment, dear  to  every  true  American  heart — Liberty  and  Union^ 
now  and  forever:  one  and  inseparable! 


CLXXVIII.— CHARACTER  OF  WASHINGTON, 

From  J.  Sparks. 

1.  The  person  of  Washington  was  commanding,  graceful, 
and  fltly  proportioned ; his  '’'stature  six  feet,  his  chest  broad 
and  full,  his  limbs  long  and  somewhat  slender,  but  well 
shaped  and  muscular.  His  features  were  regular  and  sym- 
metrical, his  eyes  of  a light  blue  color,  and  his  whole  counte- 
nance, in  its  quiet  state,  was  grave,  placid,  and  '’'benignant. 
When  alone,  or  not  engaged  in  conversation,  he  appeared 
sedate  and  thoughtful;  but  when  his  attention  was  excited, 
his  eye  kindled  quickly,  and  his  face  beamed  with  animation 
and  intelligence. 

2.  He  was  not  '’'fluent  in  speech,  but  what  he  said  was 
■’'apposite,  and  listened  to  with  the  more  interest  as  being 
known  to  come  from  the  heart.  He  seldom  attempted  '’'sal- 
lies of  wit  or  humor,  but  no  man  received  more  pleasure  from 
an  exhibition  of  them  by  others;  and,  although  contented  in 
‘’'seclusion,  he  sought  his  chief  happiness  in  society,  and  par- 
ticipated with  delight  in  all  its  '’'rational  and  innocent  amuse- 
ments. Without  ■’’austerity  on  the  one  hand,  or  an  appearance 
of  condescending  familiarity  on  the  other,  he  was  '’'afiable 
courteous,  and  cheerful ; but  it  has  often  been  remarked, 
that  there  was  a dignity  in  his  person  and  manner  not  easy 
ii)  be  '’'defined,  which  impresse<l  every  one  that  saw  him  for 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


445 


the  first  time,  with  an  instinctive  deference  and  awe.  This 
may  have  arisen,  in  part,  from  a conviction  of  his  superiority, 
as  well  as  from  the  elfect  produced  by  his  external  form  and 
deportment. 

3.  The  character  of  his  mind  was  unfolded  in  the  public 
and  private  acts  of  his  life ; and  the  proofs  of  his  greatness 
are  seen  almost  as  much  in  the  one  as  in  the  other.  The 
same  qualities  which  raised  him  to  the  "^ascendency  he  pos- 
sessed over  the  will  of  a nation,  as  the  commander  of  armies 
and  chief  magistrate,  caused  him  to  be  loved  and  respected 
as  an  individual.  Wisdom,  judgment,  prudence,  and  firm- 
ness, were  his  '^'predominant  traits.  No  man  ever  saw  more 
clearly  the  relative  importance  of  things  and  actions,  or  di- 
vested himself  more  entirely  of  the  bias  of  personal  interest, 
partiality,  and  prejudice,  in  discriminating  between  the  true 
and  the  false,  the  right  and  the  wrong,  in  all  questions  and 
subjects  that  were  presented  to  him.  He  '•'deliberated  slowly, 
but  decided  surely ; and  when  his  decision  was  once  formed, 
he  seldom  reversed  it,  and  never  relaxed  from  the  execution 
of  a measure  till  it  was  completed.  Courage,  '•'physical  and 
'•'moral,  was  a part  of  his  nature ; and,  whether  in  battle,  or 
in  the  midst  of  popular  excitement,  he  was  fearless  of  danger, 
and  regardless  of  consequences  to  himself. 

4.  His  ambition  was  of  that  noble  kind,  which  aims  to 
excel  in  whatever  it  undertakes,  and  to  acquire  a power  over 
the  hearts  of  men  by  promoting  their  happiness  and  winning 
their  affections.  Sensitive  to  the  approbation  of  others,  and 
solicitous  to  deserve  it,  he  made  no  concession  to  gain  their 
applause,  either  by  flattering  their  vanity,  or  yielding  to  their 
'•'caprices.  Cautious  without  timidity,  bold  without  rashness, 
cool  in  counsel,  deliberate  but  firm  in  action,  clear  in  foresight, 
patient  under '•'reverses,  steady,  persevering,  and  self-possessed, 
he  met  and  conquered  every  obstacle  that  obstructed  his  path 
to  honor,  renown,  and  success.  More  confident  in  the  upright 
ness  of  his  intention,  than  in  his  resources,  he  sought  knowl 
edge  and  advice  from  other  men.  He  chose  his  counselors 
with  unerring  '•'sagacity;  and  his  quick  perception  of  the 
soundness  of  an  opinion,  and  of  the  strong  points  in  an  argu- 
ment, enabled  him  to  draw  to  his  aid  the  best  fruits  of  their 
talents,  and  the  light  of  their  collected  wisdom. 


446 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


5.  His  moral  qualities  were  in  perfect  harmony  with  those 
of  his  intellect.  Duty  was  the  ruling  principle  of  his  conduct  ; 
and  the  rare  endowments  of  his  understanding  were  not  more 
constantly  tasked  to  devise  the  best  methods  of  effecting  an 
object,  than  they  were  to  guard  the  '•'sanctity  of  conscience. 
No  instance  can  be  adduced,  in  which  he  was  actuated  by  a 
'•'sinister  motive,  or  endeavored  to  attain  an  end  by  unworthy 
means.  Truth,  integrity,  and  justice,  were  deeply  rooted  in 
his  mind;  and  nothing  could  rouse  his  indignation  so  soon, 
or  so  utterly  destroy  his  confidence,  as  the  discovery  of  the 
want  of  these  virtues  in  any  one  whom  he  had  trusted. 
Weaknesses,  follies,  indiscretions  he  could  forgive  ; but  '^sub- 
terfuge  and  dishonesty  he  never  forgot,  rarely  pardoned. 

6.  He  was  candid  and  sincere,  true  to  his  friends,  and 
faithful  to  all,  neither  practicing  '•'dissimulation,  descending  to 
'•'artifice,  nor  holding  out  expectations  which  he  did  not  intend 
should  be  realized.  His  passions  were  strong,  and  sometimes 
they  broke  out  with  '•'vehemence : but  he  had  the  power  of 
checking  them  in  an  instant.  Perhaps  self-control  was  the 
most  remarkable  trait  of  his  character.  It  was,  in  part,  the 
effect  of  discipline ; yet  he  seems  by  nature  to  have  possessed 
this  power  to  a degree  which  has  been  denied  to  other  men. 

7.  A Christian  in  faith  and  practice,  he  was  habitually 
devout.  His  reverence  for  religion  is  seen  in  his  example, 
his  public  communications,  and  his  private  writings.  He 
uniformly  ascribed  his  successes  to  the  '•'beneficent  '•'agency 
of  the  Supreme  Being.  Charitable  and  humane,  he  was  lib- 
eral to  the  poor,  and  kind  to  those  in  distress.  As  a husband, 
son,  and  brother,  he  was  tender  and  affectionate.  Without 
vanity,  '•'ostentation,  or  pride,  he  never  spoke  of  himself  or 
his  actions,  unless  required  by  circumstances  which  con- 
cerned the  public  interests. 

8.  As  he  was  free  from  envy,  so  he  had  the  good  fortune 
to  escape  the  envy  of  others,  by  standing  on  an  ’•'elevation 
which  none  could  hope  to  attain.  If  he  had  one  passion 
more  powerful  than  another,  it  was  love'  of  his  country.  The 
purity  and  ardor  of  his  patriotism  were  '•'commensurate  with 
the  greatness  of  its  object.  Love  of  country  in  him  was  in- 
vested with  the  sacred  obligation  of  a duty ; and  from  the 
faithful  discharge  of  this  duty  he  never  swerved  for  a mo- 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


447 


ment,  either  in  thought  or  deed,  through  the  whole  period 
of  his  eventful  career. 

9.  Such  are  some  of  the  traits  in  the  character  of  Wash- 
ington, which  have  acquired  for  him  the  love  and  veneration 
of  mankind.  If  they  are  not  marked  with  the  '^'brilliancy, 
extravagance,  and  '^eccentricity,  which,  in  other  men,  have 
excited  the  astonishment  of  the  world,  so  neither  are  they 
'^'tarnished  by  the  follies,  nor  disgraced  by  the  crimes  of  those 
men.  It  is  the  happy  combination  of  rare  talents  and  quali- 
ties, the  '♦'harmonious  union  of  the  intellectual  and  moral 
powers,  rather  than  the  dazzling  splendor  of  any  one  trait, 
which  constitute  the  '♦'grandeur  of  his  character.  If  the  title 
of  great  man  ought  to  be  reserved  for  him  who  can  not  be 
charged  with  an  '♦'indiscretion  or  a vice  ; who  spent  his  life  in 
establishing  the  independence,  the  glory,  and  durable  pros- 
perity of  his  country;  who  succeeded  in  all  that  he  under- 
took ; and  whose  successes  were  never  won  at  the  expense  of 
honor,  justice,  integrity,  or  by  the  sacrifice  of  a single  prin- 
ciple,— this  title  will  not  be  denied  to  Washington. 


THE  MOTHER  OF  WASHINGTON. 

Methinks  we  see  thee,  as  in  olden  time, 

Simple  in  garb,  '♦'majestic  and  serene. 

Unmoved  by  pomp  or  circumstance,  in  truth 
■♦'Inflexible,  and,  with  a Spartan  zeal 
'♦'Repressing  vice,  and  making  folly  grave. 

Thou  didst  not  deem  it  woman’s  part  to  waste 
Life  in  '♦'inglorious  sloth;  to  sport  awhile 
Amid  the  flowers,  or  on  the  summer  wave, 

Then  fleet,  like  the  '♦'ephemeron,  away; 

Building  no  temple  in  her  children’s  hearts. 

Save  to  the  vanity  and  pride  of  life 
Which  she  had  worshiped.  For  the  might  that  clothed 
His  “Country’s  Father,”  for  the  glorious  deeds 
That  make  Mount  Vernon’s  tomb  a Mecca  shrine, 

For  all  the  earth,  what  thanks  to  thee  are  due. 

Who,  ’mid  his  '♦'elements  of  being,  wrought. 

We  know  not;  Heaven  can  tell. 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


CLXXIX.— THE  VICTOR’S  CROWN. 

From  Mrs.  Hale. 

1.  A CROWN  for  the  victor!  a crown  of  light! 

From  the  land  where  the  flowers  ne’er  feel  a blight, 
Was  gathered  the  wreath  that  around  it  blows: 

And  he  who  o’ercometh  his  treacherous  foes, 

That  fadeless  crown  shall  gain. 

A king  went  forth  on  the  rebel  array, 

Intrenched  where  a lovely  hamlet  lay  : 

He  frowned, — and  there  s naught  save  ashes  and  blood. 
And  blackened  bones,  where  that  hamlet  stood; 

Yet  his  treacherous  foes  he  hath  not  slain 

2.  A crown  for  the  victor ! a crown  of  light  I 
Encircled  wi  h jewels  so  pure  and  bright. 

Night  never  hath  gloomed  where  its  luster  flows  r 
And  he  who  can  conquer  his  proudest  foes. 

That  glorious  crown  shall  gain. 

A hero  came  from  the  gory  field. 

And  low  at  his  feet  the  captives  kneeled; 

In  his  might  he  hath  trodden  a nation  down, 

But  he  may  not  challenge  that  glorious  crown, 

For  his  proudest  foes  he  hath  not  slain. 

3.  A crown  for  the  victor ! a crown  of  light ! 

Like  the  morning  sun  to  the  dazzled  sight. 

From  the  night  of  a dungeon  raised,  it  glows , 

And  he  who  can  slay  his  deadliest  foes. 

That  shining  crown  shall  gain. 

With  searching  eye  and  stealthy  tread. 

The  man  of  wrath  sought  his  enemy’s  bed: 

Like  festering  wounds  are  the  wrongs  he  hath  borne 
And  he  takes  the  revenge  his  soul  hath  sworn ; 

But  his  deadliest  foe  he  hath  not  slain. 

4.  A crown  for  the  victor!  a crown  of  light! 

To  be  worn  with  a robe  whose  spotless  white 
Makes  darkness  seem  resting  on  Alpine  snows; 

And  he  who  o’ercometh  his  mightiest  foes. 

That  robe  and  crown  shall  gain. 

With  eye  upraised,  and  forehead  bare, 

A pilgrim  knelt  down  in  holy  prayer ; 
lie  hath  wrestled  with  self,  and  with  passion  striven; 
And  to  him  hath  the  Sword  of  the  Spirit  been  given  — 
Oh ! crown  him ! for  his  foes, — his  sms^ — are  slain. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


449 


CLXXX.— MRS.  CAUDLE’S  LECTURE. 

From  Douglas  Jerrold. 

1.  Well,  Mr.  Caudle,  I hope  you  ’re  in  a little  better 
temper  than  you  were  this  morning.  There,  you  need  n’t 
begin  to  whistle:  people  don’t  come  to  bed  to  whistle.  But 
it’s  like  you;  I can’t  speak,  that  you  don’t  try  to  insult 
me.  Once,  I used  to  say  you  were  the  best  creature  living: 
now,  you  get  quite  a fiend.  Do  let  you  rest?  No,  I won’t 
let  you  rest.  It ’s  the  only  time  I have  to  talk  to  you,  and 
you  shall  hear  me.  I ’m  put  upon  all  day  long : it ’s  very 
hard  if  I can ’t  speak  a word  at  night ; besides,  it  is  n’t  often 
I open  my  mouth,  goodness  knows ! 

2.  Because  once  in  your  lifetime  your  shirt  wanted  a but- 
ton, you  must  almost  swear  the  roof  off  the  house.  You  didnt 
swear?  Ha,  Mr.  Caudle!  you  don’t  know  what  you  do  when 
you  ’re  in  a passion.  You  were  not  in  a "^passion,  wer’n’t  you? 
Well,  then,  I don’t  know  what  a passion  is;  and  I think  1 
ought  by  this  time.  I ’ve  lived  long  enough  with  you,  Mr. 
Caudle,  to  know  that. 

3.  It ’s  a pity  you  hav’  n’t  something  worse  to  complain 
of  than  a button  off  your  shirt.  If  you ’d  some  wives,  you 
would,  I know.  I ’m  sure  I ’m  never  without  a needle  and 
thread  in  my  hand;  what  with  you  and  the  children,  I’m 
made  a perfect  slave  of.  And  what’s  my  thanks?  Why,  if 
once  in  your  life  a button ’s  off  your  shirt — what  do  you  cry 
‘oA’  at?  I say  once,  Mr.  Caudle;  or  twice,  or  three  times, 
at  most.  I ’m  sure,  Caudle,  no  man’s  buttons  in  the  world 
are  better  looked  after  than  yours.  I only  wish  I ’d  kept 
the  shirts  you  had  when  you  were  first  married!  I should 
like  to  know  where  were  your  buttons  then? 

4.  Yes,  it  is  worth  talking  of!  But  that ’s  how  you  al- 
ways try  to  put  me  down.  You  fiy  into  a rage,  and  then, 
if  I only  try  to  speak,  you  won’t  hear  me.  That’s  how 
you  men  always  will  have  all  the  talk  to  yourselves : a poor 
woman  is  n’t  allowed  to  get  a word  in.  A nice  notion  you 
have  of  a wife,  to  suppose  she ’s  nothing  to  think  of  but  her 
husband’s  buttons.  A pretty  notion,  indeed,  you  have  of 
marriage.  Ha ! if  poor  women  only  knew  what  they  had 


450 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


to  go  througli ! — what  with  buttons,  and  one  thing  and 
another ! — they ’d  never  tie  themselves  up, — no,  not  to  the 
best  man  in  the  world,  I ’m  sure.  What  would  they  do,  Mr. 
Caudle? — Why,  do  much  better  without  you,  I ’m  certain. 

5.  And  it ’s  my  belief,  after  all,  that  the  button  was  n’t 
off  the  shirt;  it’s  my  belief  that  you  pulled  it  off,  that  you 
might  have  something  to  talk  about.  Oh,  you  ’re  '’'aggravat- 
ing enough,  when  you  like,  for  any  thing!  All  I know  is, 
it’s  very  odd  that  the  button  should  be  off  the  shirt;  for 
I ’m  sure  no  woman ’s  a greater  slave  to  her  husband’s  but- 
tons than  I am.  I only  say  it ’s  very  odd. 

6.  However,  there ’s  one  comfort;  it  can ’t  last  long.  I ’m 
worn  to  death  with  your  temper,  and  sha’  n’t  trouble  you  a 
great  while.  Ha,  you  may  laugh ! And  I dare  say  you 
would  laugh!  I’ve  no  doubt  of  it!  That ’s  your  love; 
that’s  your  feeling!  I know  that  I’m  sinking  every  day, 
though  I say  nothing  about  it.  And  when  I ’m  gone,  we 
shall  see  how  your  second  wife  will  look  after  your  buttons ! 
You  ’ll  find  out  the  difference,  then.  Yes,  Caudle,  you  ’ll 
think  of  me,  then ; for  then,  I hope,  you  ’ll  never  have  a 
blessed  button  to  your  back. 

7.  No,  I’m  not  a '’'vindictive  woman,  Mr.  Caudle;  no- 
body ever  called  me  that,  but  you.  What  do  you  say?  No- 
body ever  knew  so  much  of  me?  That’s  nothing  at  all  to  do 
with  it.  Ha ! I would  n’t  have  your  aggravating  temper,  Cau- 
dle, for  mines  of  gold.  It ’s  a good  thing  I ’m  not  as  worry- 
ing as  you  are,  or  a nice  house  there ’d  be  between  us.  I only 
wish  you ’d  had  a wife  that  would  have  talked  to  you ! Then 
you ’d  have  known  the  difference.  But  you  impose  upon 
me,  because,  like  a poor  fool,  I say  nothing.  I should  be 
ashamed  of  myself,  Caudle. 

8.  And  a pretty  example  you  set  as  a father ! You  ’ll 
make  your  boys  as  bad  as  yourself.  Talking  as  you  did  all 
breakfast  time  about  your  buttons ! And  of  a Sunday  morn- 
ing too ! And  you  call  yourself  a Christian  ! I should  like 
to  know,  what  your  boys  will  say  of  you  when  they  grow 
up?  And  all  about  a paltry  button  off  one  of  your  wrist- 
bands! A decent  man  wouldn’t  have  mentioned  it.  Why 
dont  I hold  my  tongue?  Because  I wont  hold  my  tongue. 
I ’m  to  have  my  peace  of  mind  destroyed — I ’m  to  be  wor* 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


451 


ried  into  my  grave  for  a miserable  shirt  button,  and  I ’m  to 
hold  my  tongue!  Oh!  but  that ’s  just  like  you  men! 

9.  But  I know  what  I ’ll  do  for  the  future.  Every  but- 
ton you  have  may  drop  off,  and  I won’t  so  much  as  put  a 
thread  to  ’em.  And  I should  like  to  know  what  you  ’ll  do 
then?  Oh,  you  must  get  somebody  else  to  sew  ’em,  must  you? 
That ’s  a pretty  threat  for  a husband  to  hold  out  to  a wife ! 
And  to  such  a wife  as  I ’ve  been,  too : :”3h  a slave  to  your 
buttons,  as  I may  say!  Somebody  else  to  sew  ’em,  ehf  No, 
Caudle,  no ; not  while  I ’m  alive  ! When  I ’m  dead — and 
with  what  I have  to  bear,  there ’s  no  knowing  how  soon 
that  may  be — when  I ’m  dead,  I say — oh  1 what  a brute  you 
must  be  to  snore  so ! 

10.  You  We  not  snoring?  Ha!  that’s  what  you  always  say; 
but  that’s  nothing  to  do  with  it.  You  must  get  somebody 
else  to  sew  ’em,  must  you?  Ha!  I shouldn’t  wonder.  Oh 
no!  I should  be  surprised  at  nothing  now!  Nothing  at  all! 
It ’s  what  people  have  always  told  me  it  would  come  to ; and 
now  the  buttons  have  opened  my  eyes ! But  the  whole  world 
shall  know  of  your  '♦'cruelty,  Mr.  Caudle.  After  the  wife  I ’ve 
been  to  you.  Caudle,  you ’ve  a heart  like  a hearth-stono  you 
have! 


CLXXXI.— THE  JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE. 
From  George  Arnold. 

1.  ’Twas  a '•'jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago, 

Tall,  and  slender,  and  sallow,  and  dry ; 
llis  form  was  bent  and  his  gait  was  slow. 

And  his  long,  thin  hair  was  white  as  snow, 

But  a wonderful  twinkle  shone  in  his  eye : 
And  he  sang  every  night  as  he  went  to  bed, 
“Let  us  be  happy  down  here  below; 

The  living  should  live,  though  the  dead  be  dead, 
Said  the  jolly  old  '•'pedagogue,  long  ago. 

2.  He  taught  the  scholars  the  Buie  of  Three, 

Reading,  and  writing,  and  history  too; 

He  took  the  little  ones  on  his  knee. 

For  a kind  old  heart  in  his  breast  had  he. 

And  the  wants  of  the  littlest  child  he  knew. 


452 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


Learn  while  you’re  young,”  he  often  said, 

“There  is  much  to  enjoy  down  here  below; 

Life  for  the  living,  and  rest  for  the  dead!” 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

3.  With  the  stupidest  boys,  he  was  kind  and  cool. 

Speaking  only  in  gentlest  tones ; 

The  rod  was  scarcely  known  in  his  school — 
Whipping  to  him  was  a '•'barbarous  rule. 

And  too  hard  work  for  his  poor  old  bones; 
Besides  it  was  painful,  he  sometimes  said: 

“We  should  make  life  pleasant  down  here  below 
The  living  need  '•'charity  more  than  the  dead,” 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

4.  He  lived  in  the  house  by  the  hawthorn  lane, 

With  roses  and  woodbine  over  the  door; 

His  rooms  were  quiet,  and  neat,  and  plain. 

But  a spirit  of  comfort  there  held  reign, 

And  made  him  forget  he  was  old  and  poor. 

“1  need  so  little,”  he  often  said; 

“And  my  friends  and  relatives  here  below 
Won’t  '•'litigate  over  me  when  I am  dead,” 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

6.  But  the  pleasantest  times  he  had,  of  all, 

Were  the  '•'sociable  hours  he  used  to  pass. 

With  his  chair  tipped  back  to  a neighbor’s  wall, 
Making  an  '•'unceremonious  call. 

Over  a pipe  and  a friendly  glass: 

This  was  the  finest  pleasure  he  said, 

Of  the  many  he  tasted  here  below : 

“ Who  has  no  '•'cronies  had  better  be  dead,” 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

6.  The  jolly  old  pedagogue’s  wrinkled  face 
Melted  all  over  in  sunshiny  smiles; 

He  stirred  his  glass  with  an  old-school  grace. 
Chuckled,  and  sipped,  and  prattled  apace. 

Till  the  house  grew  merry  from  cellar  to  '•'tiles, 
“I’m  a pretty  old  man,”  he  gently  said, 

“I’ve  lingered  a long  time  here  below; 

But  my  heart  is  fresh,  if  my  youth  is  fled  I ” 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


453 


7.  He  smoked  his  pipe  in  the  balmy  air 

Every  night,  when  the  sun  went  down ; 

And  the  soft  wind  played  in  his  silvery  hair, 

Leaving  its  tenderest  kisses  there. 

On  the  jolly  old  pedagogue’s  jolly  old  crown; 

And  feeling  the  kisses,  he  smiled,  and  said : 

“’Twas  a glorious  world  down  here  below; 

Why  wait  for  happiness  till  we  are  dead?” 

Said  this  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

8.  He  sat  at  his  door  one  midsummer  night. 

After  the  sun  had  sunk  in  the  west. 

And  the  lingering  beams  of  golden  light 
Made  his  kindly  old  face  look  warm  and  bright, 
While  the  '•'odorous  night- winds  whispered  ‘‘Kest!  ’ 
Gentty,  gently,  he  bowed  his  head  ; 

There  were  angels  waiting  for  him,  1 know; 

He  was  sure  of  his  happiness  living  or  dead. 

This  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago ! 


CLXXXII.  -THE  DAWN. 

From  Everett. 

Ju'pi-TER : the  largest  planet  of  the  solar  system,  and,  next  to  Venus, 
Ihe  brightest. 

Pleiades ; (pro.  pie' ya-dez^)  a group  of  seven  small  stars  in  the  constel- 
lation Taurus. 

Ly'ra,  An-drom'e-da;  two  brilliant  constellations. 

Ma'gi-ans;  Persian  worshipers  of  fire  and  the  sun,  as  representatives 
of  the  Supreme  Being. 

1.  I HAD  occasion,  a few  weeks  since,  to  take  the  early 
train  from  Providence  to  Boston,  and  for  this  purpose  rose 
at  two  o’clock  in  the  morning.  Every  thing  around  was 
wrapped  in  darkness  and  hushed  in  silence,  broken  only  by 
what  seemed  at  that  hour  the  unearthly  clank  and  rush  of 
the  train.  It  was  a mild,  serene,  midsummer’s  night,  the  sky 
was  without  a cloud,  the  winds  were  whist.  The  moon,  then 
in  the  last  quarter,  had  just  risen,  and  the  stars  shone  with  a 
spectral  luster  but  little  affected  by  her  presence. 

2.  Jupiter,  two  hours  higli,  was  the  herald  of  the  day; 
the  Pleiades,  just  above  the  horizon,  shed  their  sweet  infl-i 

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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


ence  in  the  east;  Lyra  sparkled  near  the  '^zenith;  Androm- 
eda veiled  her  newly-discovered  glories  from  the  naked  eye 
in  the  south ; the  steady  Pointers,  far  beneath  the  pole, 
looked  meekly  up  from  the  depths  of  the  north  to  their 
sovereign.  Such  was  the  glorious  spectacle  as  I entered 
the  train. 

3.  As  we  proceeded,  the  timid  approa  h of  twilight  be- 
came more  perceptible;  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky  began 
to  soften;  the  smaller  stars,  like  little  children,  went  first  to 
rest;  the  sister-beams  of  the  Pleiades  soon  melted  together; 
but  the  bright  '’'constellations  of  the  west  and  north  remained 
unchanged.  Steadily  the  wondrous  '’'transfiguration  went  on. 
Hands  of  angels,  hidden  from  mortal  eyes,  shifted  the  scenery 
of  the  heavens;  the  glories  of  the  night  dissolved  into  the 
glories  of  the  dawn. 

4.  The  blue  sky  now  turned  more  softly  gray;  the  great 
watch-stars  shut  up  their  holy  eyes ; the  east  began  to  kin- 
dle. Faint  streaks  of  purple  soon  blushed  along  the  sky; 
the  whole  celestial  '’'concave  was  filled  with  the  infiowing 
tides  of  the  morning  light,  which  came  pouring  down  from 
above  in  one  great  ocean  of  radiance ; till  at  length,  as  we 
reached  the  Blue  Hills,  a flash  of  purple  fire  blazed  out 
from  above  the  horizon,  and  turned  the  dewy  tear-drops  of 
flower  and  leaf  into  rubies  and  diamonds.  In  a few  seconds, 
the  everlasting  gates  of  the  morning  were  thrown  wide  open, 
and  the  lord  of  day,  arrayed  in  glories  too  severe  for  the 

,^:_gaze  of  man,  began  his  state. 

5.  I do  not  wonder  at  the  ’'superstition  of  the  ancieoit 
Magians,  who  in  the  morning  of  the  world  went  up  to  the 
hill-tops  of  Central  Asia,  and,  ignorant  of  the  true  God, 
adored  the  most  glorious  work  of  his  hand.  But  I am  filled 
with  amazement,  when  I am  told,  that,  in  this  enlightened 
age  and  in  the  heart  of  the  Christian  world,  there  are  persons 
who  can  witness  this  daily  manifestation  of  the  power  and 
wisdom  of  the  Creator,  and  yet  say  in  their  hearts,  “ There 
is  no  God.” 


But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  king  of  day, 
Rejoicing  in  the  east.  The  lessening  cloud, 
The  kindled  azure,  and  the  mountain’s  brow 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


Illumed  with  fluid  gold,  his  near  approach 
Betoken  glad.  Lo!  now  apparent  all, 

Aslant  the  dew-hright  earth  and  colored  air. 

He  looks  in  boundless  majesty  abroad; 

And  sheds  the  shining  day,  that  burnished  plays 
On  rocks,  and  hills,  and  towers,  and  wandering  streams. 
High-gleaming  from  afar.  Prime  cheerer,  light! 

Of  all  material  beings  first,  and  best! 

Efflux  divine!  Nature’s  resplendent  robe! 

Without  whose  vesting,  beauty  all  were  wrapt 
In  unessential  gloom ; and  thou,  0 sun! 

Soul  of  surrounding  worlds,  in  whom  best  seen 
Shines  out  thy  Maker,  may  I sing  of  thee? 

Thomson. 


CLXXXHI.— CALLING  THE  ROLL. 

From  Shepherd. 

1.  “Corporal  Green!”  the  ’’'orderly  cried; 

“Here!”  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 

From  the  lips  of  a soldier  standing  near; 

And  “here!  ” was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

“ Cyrus  Drew ! ” and  a silence  fell ; 

This  time,  no  answer  followed  the  call; 

Only  his  rear-man  saw  him  fall. 

Killed  or  wounded,  he  could  not  tell. 

2.  There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 

These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks, 

As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books. 

While  slowly  gathered  the  '•'shades  of  night. 

The  fern  on  the  slope  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn,  where  the  poppies  grew, 
Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew; 

And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river’s  flood. 

3.  For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side, 

That  day,  in  the  face  of  a murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ’•'ire; 

• And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 
“Herbert  Cline!”  At  the  call  there  came 
Two  '•'stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line. 

Bearing  between  them  Herbert  Cline, 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name, 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER 


4.  “Ezra  Kerr!”  and  a voice  said  “here!” 

“Hiram  Kerr!”  but  no  man  replied: 

They  were  brothers,  these  two;  the  sad  wind  sighed, 
And  a shudder  crept  through  the  corn-field  near. 
“Ephraim  Deane!” — then  a soldier  spoke: 

“Deane  carried  our  regiment’s  colors,”  he  said, 
“When  our  ensign  was  shot;  I left  him  dead, 

Just  after  the  enemy  ^wavered  and  broke. 

0.  “ Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies ; 

I paused  a moment,  and  gave  him  to  drink; 

He  murmured  his  mother’s  name,  I think; 

And  death  came  with  it  and  closed  his  eyes.” 

’Twas  a victory — ^yes;  but  it  cost  us  dear; 

For  that  company’s  roll,  when  called  at  night, 

Of  a hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight. 
Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered 


CLXXXIV.— THE  DYING  SOLDIER. 

1.  The  shadows  of  evening  are  thickening.  Twilight 
closes,  and  the  thin  mists  are  rising  in  the  valley.  The 
last  charging  '^squadron  yet  thunders  in  the  distance;  but 
it  presses  only  on  the  '•'foiled  and  scattered  foe.  The  fight 
is  over!  And  those  who  rode  foremost  in  its  fields  at  morn- 
ing, where  are  they  now?  On  the  bank  of  yon  little  stream, 
there  lies  a knight,  his  life-blood  ebbing  faster  than  its  tide. 
His  shield  is  rent,  and  his  lance  is  broken.  Soldier,  why 
faintest  thou?  The  blood  that  swells  from  that  deep  wound 
will  answer, 

2.  It  was  this  morning  that  the  sun  rose  bright  upon 
his  hopes;  it  sets  upon  his  grave.  This  day  he  led  the 
ibremost  rank  of  spears, . that  had  crossed  the  foe’s  dark 
J.ne;  then  death  shouted  in  the  onset!  It  was  the  last 
blow  that  reached  him.  He  has  conquered,  though  he  shall 
not  triumph  in  the  victory.  His  '•'breast-plate  is  dinted. 
His  '•'helmet  has  the  traces  of  well-dealt  blows.  The  scarf 
on  his  breast!  she  would  shrink  but  to  touch  it  now,  who 
placed  it  there. 

3.  Look  on  yon  crimsoned  field  that  seems  to  mock  the 
purple  clouds  above  it!  Prostrate  they  lie,  drenched  in 


fiCLECTIC  SERIES. 


467 


their  dark  red  pool;  thy  friends  and  enemies;  the  dead  and 
dying;  the  veteran,  with  the  '^'stripling  of  a day;  the  name- 
less trooper,  and  the  leader  of  a hundred  hosts.  Friend  lies 
by  friend ; the  steed,  with  his  rider ; and  foes,  linked  in  their 
long  embrace — their  first  and  last — the  gripe  of  death.  Far 
o’er  the  field  they  lie,  a gorgeous  prey  to  ruin ! White 
plume  and  steel  '^'morion ! saber  and  "^yataghan ! crescent  and 
cross ! rich  vest  and  bright  "‘'corslet ! They  came  to  the 
fight  as  if  they  came  to  a feasting.  Glorious  and  glittering, 
even  in  death,  each  shining  warrior  lies ! 

4.  His  last  glance  still  seeks  that  banner!  The  cry  that 
shall  never  be  repeated,  cheers  on  its  last  charge.  Oh,  but 
for  strength  to  reach  the  field  once  more  I to  die  in  the  foe’s 
front  1 Peace,  dreamer  1 Thy  place  in  the  close  rank  is 
filled ; and  yet,  another  waits  for  his  who  holds  it.  Soldier ! 
she  who  sped  thee  on  thy  course  to-day,  shall  seek  thee,  with 
her  blue  eyes,  in  the  conquering  ranks  to-morrow ; but  she 
shall  seek  thee  in  vain  I Proud  heads  shall  bow  for  thee. 
Bright  eyes  shall  weep  for  thee. 

5.  Heath  I thou  wilt  be  the  soldier’s  pillow  ! Moon,  let 
thy  cold  light,  this  night,  fall  upon  him ! But,  morning, 
thy  soft  dews  shall  tempt  him  not  I The  soldier  must  wake 
no  more.  He  is  dead  I The  cross  of  a knight  is  on  his 
breast  1 his  lips  are  pressed  to  his  lady’s  token  I Soldier, 
farewell  I 


CLXXXV.— THE  PICKET. 

1.  “All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,”  they  say, 

“Except,  now  and  then,  a stray  "‘'picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket,” 

2.  ’Tis  nothing — a private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle; 

Not  an  officer  lost,  only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death  rattle. 

3.  “All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night,” 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 
Their  tents,  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 
Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 


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NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


4.  A ^tremulous  sigh  from  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  slowly  is  creeping, 

While  the  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 
Keep  guard;  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

5.  There  is  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry’s  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 

And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed, 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 

6.  His  musket  falls  slack — his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 

As  he  mutters  a prayer  for  his  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother,  may  Heaven  defend  her ! 

7.  The  moon  seems  to  shine  as  brightly  as  then. 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  and  when  low  murmured  vows 
Were  pledged,  never  more  to  be  broken. 

8.  Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes. 

He  dashes  the  tears  that  are  welling. 

And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place. 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling, 

9.  He  passes  the  fountain,  the  ’’’blasted  pine-tree; 

The  footstep  is  ’’’lagging  and  weary. 

Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 
Toward  the  shade  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 

10.  Hark!  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  suddenly  flashing  ? 

It  looked  like  a rifle: — “Hal  Mary,  good-bye!” 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing! 

11.  “All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night;” 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river; 

While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead; 

The  picket’s  off  duty  forever! 


THE  BRAVE  AT  HOME. 

1.  The  maid  who  binds  her  warrior’s  sash, 
And  smiling,  all  her  pain  dissembles, 

The  while  beneath  the  drooping  lash, 

One  starry  tear-drop  hangs  and  trembles; 


ECLECTIC  SERIES. 


459 


Though  Heaven  alone  records  the  tear, 

And  fame  shall  never  know  her  story, 

Her  heart  has  shed  a drop  as  dear 
As  ever  dewed  the  field  of  glory! 

2.  The  wife  who  girds  her  husband’s  sword, 

’Mid  little  ones  who  weep  and  wonder. 

And  bravely  speaks  the  cheering  word, 

What  though  her  heart  be  rent  asunder; — 
Doomed  nightly  in  her  dreams  to  hear 
The  bolts  of  war  around  him  rattle, — 

Has  shed  as  sacred  blood  as  e’er 
Was  poured  upon  the  field  of  battle  1 

3.  The  mother  who  conceals  her  grief. 

While  to  her  breast  her  son  she  presses. 
Then  breathes  a few  brave  words  and  brief. 
Kissing  the  patriot  brow  she  blesses; 

With  no  one  but  her  loving  God, 

To  know  the  pain  that  weighs  upon  her, 
Sheds  holy  blood  as  e’er  the  sod 

Received  on  Freedom’s  field  of  honor! 


CLXXXVI.— THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 

From  Otway  Curry. 

Tf^E  Pleiades  are  a group  of  seven  small  stars,  situated  in  the  neck 
of  the  constellation  Taurus,  and  regarded  by  some  astronomers  as  the 
central  point  round  which  our  universe  of  stars  is  revolving. 

According  to  fable  of  the  ancients,  the  Pleiades  were  the  seven  daugh- 
ters of  Atlas,  and  were  turned  into  stars,  on  account  of  their  amiable 
virtues  and  mutual  affection.  Only  six  of  the  group  are  visible  to  the 
naked  eye.  The  ancients  supposed  the  seventh  concealed  herself,  out 
of  shame  for  having  bestowed  her  love  upon  a mortal,  while  her  sisters 
were  the  favorites  of  divine  personages. 

In  the  following  beautiful  poem,  the  lost  Pleiad  is  represented  as  hav- 
ing gradually  disappeared  from  the  heavens  to  wander  away,  on  its 
mighty  circuit  through  ^Hhe  deep  deserts  of  the  ancient  night  and  far- 
ofi*  universe,”  but  yet,  in  the  coming  ages,  again  to  return,  after  having 
completed  its  sublime  revolution. 

1.  Millions  of  ages  gone. 

Didst  thou  survive,  in  thy  enthroned  place. 

Amidst  the  assemblies  of  the  starry  race, 

Still  shining  on — and  on. 


460 


NEW  SIXTH  READER. 


2.  And  even  in  earthly  time, 

Thy  parting  beams  their  olden  radiance  wore, 
And  greeted  from  the  dim  cerulean  shore, 

The  old  Chaldean  clime. 

3.  Sages  and  poets,  strong 

To  rise  and  walk  the  waveless  firmament, 
Gladly  to  thee  their  richest  offerings  sent. 

Of  eloquence  and  song. 

4.  But  thy  far-flowing  light, 

By  time’s  mysterious  shadows  overcast, 
Strangely  and  dimly  faded  at  the  last. 

Into  a nameless  night. 

5.  Along  the  expanse  serene, 

Of  clust’ry  arch  and  constellated  zone, 

With  orb^d  sands  of  tremulous  gold  o’erstrown. 
No  more  canst  thou  be  seen. 

6.  Say,  whither  wand’rest  thou  ? 

Do  unseen  heavens  thy  distant  path  illume? 

Or  press  the  shades  of  everlasting  gloom 
Darkly  upon  thee  now? 

7.  Around  thee,  far  away, 

The  hazy  ranks  of  multitudinous  spheres. 
Perchance,  are  gathering  to  prolong  the  years 
Of  thy  unwilling  stay. 

8.  Sadly  our  thoughts  rehearse, 

The  story  of  thy  wild  and  wondrous  flight 
Through  the  deep  deserts  of  the  ancient  night 

And  far-off  universe. 

9.  We  call — we  call  thee  back, 

And  suns  of  many  a constellation  bright, 

Shall  weave  the  waves  of  their  illuming  light 

O’er  thy  returning  track. 


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